Little Bird
by swimmingfox
Summary: Sansa decides to go with The Hound during the Battle of Blackwater. Survival in the woods, a lot of growing up, and a tangled relationship follow...
1. Chapter 1

'No little bird, I won't hurt you'.

His voice had a near-imperceptible trace of softness that she'd never heard before. He had leaned right down so that he was almost level with her face, and she steeled herself to hold his gaze, which she couldn't quite read, smelling the wine, and the fire, and death. He reeked of it. His face was coated in blood, drizzling down his burnt cheek and smeared in his brows. There were patches of blood on his chest mail, and on the armour on his shoulders. His hair dangled thickly in clumps in front of the burnt side of his face. Though the moment lasted only a breath, she felt suspended, paralysed with fear and indecision. The thought of going with _him_, out there, into the battle-fury, and then – beyond.

She imagined them riding into woods that disappeared into darkness, and being swallowed whole. But - what would happen if she stayed here? Would she simply be another trophy for another ruler? Or if the Lannisters somehow triumphed - how long would she last as Joffrey's tortured plaything if he wasn't there, like he'd sneered in the corridor that time, to come between her and 'her beloved king'? But that was here, within castle walls, eyes at every corner. What would happen when it was just the two of them? She was still scared of him: his hulk, and his unpredictability, lurching from something nearing a gruff chivalry to drunken monster in a second. She swallowed. Her awkward sound seemed to break something unspoken. The Hound breathed in suddenly and gutturally, and he straightened, towering over her again, his face setting. He turned stiffly and walked to the door, reaching for the latch.

'Wait -' He froze, and slowly turned.

'I'll – I'm coming.'

For a moment, his face lost its hard edge. Then he nodded, curtly. 'Get some things together. A small bundle, no more.' He looked down at her frame. 'Your plainest dress. If you have one. There'll be no highborn ladies on the road.' His grin was slightly cruel, and then he was serious again. 'I'll fetch horses. Latch the door. Don't let _anyone_ in. I'll knock four times.' And he was gone.

Sansa ran to the door and pushed up the bolt. She leant her back against it, her heart hammering high in her throat. She could hardly breathe. Underneath her terror she felt faintly excited: a heroine, stealing away in the dead of night. She would be brave. She would make it back to Winterfell.

Quickly, she gathered up some things. A brown woollen dress too hot for King's Landing. A spare smock. She tumbled her jewels – two necklaces, a bracelet, a charm with a direwolf on it – into a square of cloth used for her moonbloods and wrapped them up. She pulled a coverlet from the bed and began to place her clothes on it. Suddenly, her door rattled. Someone was outside, pushing against it. Sansa's heart stopped. There was a frantic light knock on the door and an urgent whisper.

'Sansa! Let me in!'

It was Shae.

Sansa exhaled, and rushed to the door. 'He said I'm not supposed to let anyone in,' she whispered.

Shae slipped into the room. '_Who_ says?' Her eyes caught the clothes on Sansa's bed. She turned urgently towards her. 'Sansa. What is happening?'

Sansa's eyes dropped to the floor. 'The – The Hound. He's leaving. He's taking me to Winterfell'.

Shae's voice hardened. 'Is he.' There was a silence. Sansa's eyes flickered upwards for a second, and seeing Shae's penetrating gaze, fell quickly down again. She gulped, and nodded. Shae grabbed Sansa's chin and forced it upwards, looking at her fiercely. 'Why are you blushing?'

'No!' Sansa protested. 'I'm – I'm not, it's just – you're making me blush. I know what you think. And I don't care. It's too dangerous for me here. He's right. I need to go'.

Shae's eyes softened slightly, and her hand moved to Sansa's cheek. 'You're right.' She gazed at her. 'It is too dangerous here for you. But that man – he is a monster. You don't know what men are – '

'I _do_ know. I do know what they are like, don't you think I've seen it? Joffrey, Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, Littlefinger, those men who attacked me – _they_ are monsters. The Hound – I know he's horrible, but he's never hurt me, never been cruel, except in words. I've seen it. I – I think he can be kind.'

Shae inhaled, and breathed out heavily, putting her hands on Sansa's shoulders. 'They are all the same. They all want one thing. Why does he want to take you away when he can be much faster on his own?'

There was a sudden heavy knock, and another, and then two more. Shae glanced towards the door, and back at Sansa.

Sansa gulped. 'That's him.'

Shae's jaw clenched and she let her hands fall. Sansa went to the door, and suddenly the Hound was in the room, seeming bigger and bloodier than ever. He was carrying a large bundle. His eyes steeled as he saw Shae, who jutted her chin out defiantly, holding his look.

'I told you not to let anyone in.' The Hound didn't move his eyes from Shae's.

Sansa spoke as calmly as she could. 'It's Shae. I trust her.'

'You shouldn't trust anyone,' he said, viciousness creeping into his voice.

'Apart from you?' Shae jerked her chin up at him fiercely. 'What makes you so special?'

The Hound ran a hand through his hair with impatience. 'I don't have time for this.' He turned to Sansa. 'Do you want to come or not?'

Sansa took a jagged breath in, and held it. 'Yes.'

The Hound went to the bed, and gathered up her things into a pile in the coverlet. 'Then for all the Gods' sakes let's go, before the whole damned castle falls in.'

'Sansa, please don't go with this man.' Shae had a measured note of pleading in her voice as the Hound took a thin leather cord from a pocket and wound it around the bundle.

'Leave off, woman,' he said, shaking his head. 'She can make up her own mind.'

'Shae,' Sansa pleaded. 'He – he won't hurt me. I know he won't.' The Hound straightened up with the bundle, looking at Sansa and taking in what she'd said.

Shae looked from one to the other. She tilted her face up to the Hound and narrowed her eyes. 'You do anything to her, I'll kill you'.

He leaned down to her, impassive, a slight smile on his lips. 'I'd kill you first.' He looked at Sansa. 'I've a boy waiting with the horses. I'd like to get to him before he has his head removed.'

Sansa turned to Shae, her eyes filling.

Shae shrugged, with a small, wondering shake of her head. 'Do what you must do.'

'Thank you, Shae.' Sansa turned to the Hound, who reached for the door latch.

'Wait – ' Shae grabbed Sansa's arm. 'Wait outside,' she instructed the Hound, giving him no option.

'Hells,' he sighed fiercely under his breath, and left the room.

Shae shut the door behind him, and leant down to her ankle, pulling up her skirts. She took out the dagger from its hold on her lower leg, and held it in her mouth. She untied the legstrap, and quickly lifted Sansa's skirt and tied it round her calf, before taking the dagger from her mouth and slotting it into place. The blade pressed coldly onto Sansa's skin.

Shae straightened up. 'Anything happens, you use it. Don't hesitate.'

Sansa gazed at her wonderingly. 'Who are you Shae, really?'

Shae shrugged, and smoothed her hands over Sansa's hair. 'I'm no one.'

'Will I ever see you again?'

'I don't know.'

'When it's all over, you could - come to Winterfell', Sansa said, though she knew it to be untrue.

'I don't like the cold,' Shae replied simply. Sansa felt hot tears welling up again. Shae wiped one away. 'We may yet see each other again. Who knows what lies in our futures.' Sansa fell, sobbing, into Shae's arms. Shae stroked her hair. 'Goodbye, precious child. Don't trust anyone. Be brave. Be a woman. And be careful.'

Sansa pulled back, her eyes full of concern and fear. 'What about you?'

Shae smiled calmy, looking stronger than ever. 'I'll be alright. I know how to take care of myself. And now you need to learn. Go.'

Sansa took a deep breath, then, looking past Shae to her dressing table, went over and grabbed the doll that Father had given her. She gave a last glance to her lady's maid, and opened the door.


	2. Chapter 2

The Hound was waiting just outside, kicking the wall with his toe impatiently. 'Thank the Gods', he said, as she emerged. 'I thought I was going to have to challenge her to a fucking duel.' As he spoke, he caught sight of Sansa's doll and raised his eyebrows, faintly amused. 'Got everything you need?'

'Yes,' she said, not making eye contact, and grabbing her bundle from him to stuff it inside.

He gave a small shake of his head, as if she was a child. 'Come on.' He strode down the hallway, carrying his sack, leaving Sansa to walk as quickly as she could after him.

He turned down a curving stone stairwell, along a corridor, and over a stone bridge. Sansa could hear a churning cloud of noise. Men, or boats, or horses.

'Will we have to go through the - fighting?' she asked tremulously to his back.

'No.' The Hound didn't turn around. 'It's our lot we have to fear'. They emerged at a hallway utterly unfamiliar to Sansa, with sloping walls. The Hound glanced carefully both left and right, and gestured with a sharp jerk of his head. 'This way. Stay close.'

Sansa hovered near his arm, starting to realise how dangerous this was. If anyone saw them – if Joffrey found out. The Hound halted suddenly. She almost clattered into him. He turned around, looking at her. Or rather, looking at her hair.

'What?' Sansa shrank slightly under his stare.

He frowned, darkly pensive. 'You're too recognisable. Anyone would know that flaming hair in a heartbeat'. He scrutinised her, for unnervingly too long, and then gave one of his sniffs. 'This way'. He strode left down a dark corridor and stooped into a doorway, opening it. Sansa followed him.

It was an airless, plain room, with an unmade bed and an empty fire grate. The Hound went to a large wooden chest under the small window and opened it.

'Whose room is this?' she said in a half-whisper.

'Mine.' He crouched over the chest. Sansa cast her eyes around the room. There was no matting, very plain carpets and curtains, a goblet on a table and some spilled wine. It smelt stale. The Hound pulled two long cloaks from the chest and came towards her. He shook one of them out, and swept it around her back and over her shoulders. The coarse, brown material tumbled down to her ankles. He drew two neckties under her chin, tied them there, and pulled the hood up over her hair.

'There,' he said, squinting down at her, almost grinning. 'A proper little fugitive.'

Sansa was about to retort when he suddenly shushed her, holding a finger up and listening intently. There was a distant, anguished cry and some scuttling feet.

'The battle's getting closer,' said the Hound quietly. 'We'd better fly.' He gestured to the door, and they slipped out.

The Hound seemed to know the Keep inside out, whisking her through more corridors, and down more staircases, none of which Sansa had ever set foot in before. They began to be dark and musty, with lanterns set so far apart that you could barely see the next when out of the firelight of the last. She supposed they were servants' quarters. Suddenly there was a shout from around the corner ahead of them. The Hound stopped dead, and barged his shoulder into a left-hand doorway, yanking Sansa by the arm. He pulled her into the room and quickly shut the door, pressing her back up against it. Feet clattered past the door; there was the scrape of a spear on stone and someone growling 'get to it, you cowards'. He was still gripping her elbow and stood close against her, his chest heaving at her eye level. A clump of hair – someone else's hair – was matted with blood to his chain mail.

The sounds grew distant. Sansa tentatively looked up towards his face: he seemed to still be listening, eyes focused on the middle distance, his fingers whitening at her elbow.

'You're – you're hurting me.'

The Hound quickly looked down, embarrassed, and released his grip on her. He looked thoughtful for a second, and then angry. 'Fuck this. We'll never get out if we keep having to hide. Come on'. He took a step back away from her, and reached for the door handle.

As they exited the tower, a soldier dressed in a goldcloak ran right into them.

'Curses on you, get out of my –' He saw the white cloak. 'My apologies, ser.' He glanced at Sansa. She quickly dropped her eyes to the floor, hoping her cloak concealed at least some of her face. He turned sideways to let them pass.

They reached the stables in the shadow of the Keep unnoticed.

'What's that smell?' Sansa wrinkled her nose. It was stinging, and acrid: smoke mixed with something rotten.

'Wildfire,' said the Hound, ducking under an arch and gesturing for her to follow.

A boy not more than twelve was standing nervously, holding the reins of two horses. The Hound's black destrier was snorting furiously and thudding a back hoof into the ground. The other was a light brown palfrey, that moved around restlessly. They were both saddled and had bundles tied to their backs, the larger horse carrying a bow and arrowsheath.

The boy looked up at the Hound anxiously as they approached, and passed the reins to him. 'They don't like it, ser. And Stranger's getting itchy. I fed and watered them again.'

'Good lad.' The Hound took a small bag from his belt and threw it to him. 'I'd best get if I were you'.

'They said I've got to fight,' said the boy, his head bowed.

The Hound looked down at him. 'Just keep your head down then. You'll be alright'.

The boy seemed unconvinced. 'Thank you, ser.' He backed away, tucking the bag of coin in his sleeve, and vanishing through a small door at the back of the stables.

The Hound turned to Sansa. 'Ready?'

He held the reins of the mare and put his palm out. She placed her foot on his hand and he swiftly hoisted her up as she swung her leg over the horse, which harrumphed and jerked forwards. Sansa grabbed the reins and managed to stay upright, trying her best to calm her as the mare stamped and tossed her head.

He eyed her. 'You'd best ride with me if you can't control her.'

'Two horses are more use than one.' Sansa's firmness was slightly lessened by the horse's jittery steps.

'If you say so,' grunted the Hound, mounting his destrier. He took hold of a rope that attached the two horses. 'I'll keep hold of you until we get out of the city.'

Outside the Red Keep's walls was an eerie sort of hell. They were forced to move slowly, past the crush of people, some pleading with Sansa and clutching at her ankles. Women ran past them, clutching snot-streaked youngborn, their blankets dangling. Goldcloaks moved amongst them, pushing boys and young men towards the walls nearest the Mud Gate. The boys were stumbling, trying to fix helmets, and clutching spears twice as tall as themselves. Sansa could see a green tinge in the sky over the harbour, where smoke wreathed and feathered in huge clouds, as if dragons had come to wreak their wrath.

The Hound steered them past the Alchemist's Hall, turning left before Flea Bottom, for which Sansa was thankful. She couldn't bear to think what it was like in the slums now. They reached the Old Gate, which was eerily quiet. Three goldcloaks of the City Watch manned it and stood to attention.

The Hound rode right up to them, with Sansa behind, and turned his destrier to the side. 'Open this up.'

One of the goldcloaks, the oldest amongst them, stepped forward. 'No one passes.'

'You know who I am?' said the Hound in a low growl.

'Ay ser, I do, but they're the King's orders.'

'I'm the Kings_guard_, you cunt, whose orders do you think I'm acting on?'

'No one told us,' said another guard, a younger man, stepping forward to peer at Sansa. She bowed her head and shrank into her hood, but she could see that he recognised her. 'It's the Stark girl,' he shouted back to his fellow guards.

'Yes, anyone with eyes in their skulls can see that it's the Stark girl,' said the Hound, 'and I have orders to get her through this gate. Now fucking open it before I open you.'

The older guard hesitated. Suddenly there was a yell, and the younger guard had raised his sword, rushing towards the Hound and catching him in the upper arm. In a flash, the Hound had pulled his sword from his back and sliced open his neck. The guard gave a strangled yelp, like a dog being trodden on, and whipped sideways, crashing to the floor. The older guard came at them and the Hound's sword curved and gashed him across the belly. He sank to his knees, then face first into the mud. The Hound swung off his horse and walked towards the third guard, the youngest of all, who was rooted to the spot as the Hound approached him. Sansa stilled her mare. He was small, smaller than her, and the Hound towered over him. The guard looked up in silence, abject pleading in his face

'Don't kill him,' Sansa said under her breath. She shut her eyes too late. The Hound took his dagger from his belt, held the guard's head by his helmet so that his neck was exposed, and cut his throat.


	3. Chapter 3

And then they were outside the walls of the city. The Hound hadn't said a word after letting the last guard's body slump to the ground; he had wrenched open the portcullis, and swung back onto his horse, not looking at Sansa. He had let go of her mare's reins as soon as they were through the gate, and ignored her when she had shouted to him about shutting it, merely digging his heels into his horse and galloping up the track. Sansa had turned to look back at the city walls as they reached the brow of the first hill: she could see some dark shapes emerging from the gate. People were escaping.

They rode under a cold, half-full moon, the Hound always just ahead of her, though she could tell he was riding slowly for her. She had hardly been on a horse in all her time at King's Landing, and when she had it'd been side saddle, and at leisure. She hadn't ridden apace since Winterfell, on her beautiful cream and grey dappled young mare, Wildflower. Ayra had mocked that name.

Ayra. As Sansa rode further away from Kings Landing, the not-knowing gave her a searing pain in her stomach. She surely wasn't there any more, or if she was she'd died a long time ago. But Sansa just didn't know. It was as if her sister had been swallowed up by the earth and coveted as treasure, or dissolved into air, a halfling thing, neither alive nor dead, and always just out of reach.

They rode on, the uneven drumbeats of their horses' hooves the only sound. After what seemed an eternity, the Hound pulled up, his destrier breathing heavily. 'Can you go on?'

Sansa was exhausted, and her inner thighs were rubbed raw. She nodded meekly. 'How much further?'

The Hound jerked his head past her. 'Until we can't see that any more'.

She followed his eyes down to the valley to the dark shadow which must have been King's Landing, many leagues away but tinged with a sickly green, rising off it like steam.

He turned his horse and eyed the mare. 'Keep a tight hold, she'll do the rest.' And he was off again.

A light the colour of sour milk was faint on the horizon when they finally stopped. Sansa could barely keep her eyes open. Her lower half felt like a pummelled straw dummy. He'd been right: she had clung onto her reins until her knuckles had whitened, and the mare had followed the bigger horse dutifully, even as Sansa's chin had sagged to her chest. The Hound swung off his horse, and led it and her mare into a copse on the side of the track. Tying the reins, he put out his hands to help her dismount. Sansa could hardly move. She looked at him weakly.

'Come on,' he said, not unkindly.

Swallowing wearily, she used her hands to lift her outer thigh over the saddle towards him. He pulled her ankle over so that she was facing him, gripped her by the waist, and lowered her gently down, wincing slightly. He was holding his arm slightly awkwardly. As she landed, Sansa staggered and almost fell.

The Hound caught her by the arm and righted her, laughing under his breath. 'Not ridden in a while, then?'

Sansa shook her head, unamused, and looked around. 'Where are we?'

'Up the kingsroad,' he said, looking around him.

'Is it safe?'

'Nowhere's going to be safe, girl.' Fear pinched her throat. The Hound drew a breath in. 'But this as good a place as any for now. The horses need to rest. And so do you, by the looks of you.' He pulled a rolled-up blanket from the load on the back of his horse, grimacing again slightly as he stretched, and handed it to her. 'Get some sleep'. He nodded curtly to a hollow, matted with leaves, next to a great oak tree's exposed roots.

_Here?_ Sansa lowered her chin, trying not to look anxious.

'What?' said the Hound. She bit her lip. 'Were you expecting swandown beds and lemon cakes?'

'I don't know, I – I thought there might be… inns,' she said, feeling her cheeks flush.

'There might be, down the road,' he said. 'But it's best to keep our heads down while we're in easy riding distance of King's Landing. You're too recognisable. Go on, get.' He nodded again to the hollow.

Sansa clutched her blanket to her and limped over, feeling his eyes on her back. She deliberately didn't look over again, instead wrapping the blanket as best she could around herself and lying down. The ground was slightly damp; its chill pressed on her hips. She made a hood of the top part of the blanket and curled up, wrapping her arms around her and gazing up at the sky, which was grey-blue, uncertain. An empty wood full of shadows and no one but _him_. She was at his mercy. He might do anything. She hoped she'd made the right choice - that staying in King's Landing would be too treacherous, that she'd be as good as dead had she stayed. She felt her eyelids grow heavy.

The Hound groaned slightly. What was he doing? She could hear him shifting his armour and mail, which clinked gently. She quietly turned over to look at him from underneath her blanket hood. In the first wisps of dawn, she could see him sitting up against a tree, a wineskin in one hand and the armour of his left shoulder gripped with the other, trying to pull it free. He was trying to stifle his sounds, but he was obviously in pain. He loosened one of the leather buckles, working it slowly, and suddenly froze, jerking his head to look at her.

Sansa clenched her jaw and didn't move her eyes. 'Are you - hurt?'

'Go to sleep.' He looked away. Sansa remembered the fight at the Old Gate with the goldcloaks. One of them must have struck him.

She sat up, her blanket wrapped round her. 'Let me see.'

'Go to sleep.' He sounded more threatening this time.

'Why didn't you say something?'

'I didn't want you fussing.' He took a swig from his wineskin. 'Which is what you're doing now.'

'Is it deep? Won't it need dressing?'

He turned his face away from her and spoke bitterly. 'Don't worry your pretty little head.'

'I _should_ worry,' said Sansa, feeling bold. 'If you die then who is going to take me to Winterfell?'

'Believe me, it takes more than a pinprick in the arm to kill me.'

She could see that there was pain underneath the bravado. 'Please.' She began to get up. 'Let me help.'

'Leave me be, girl,' said the Hound, more brutally. 'You're worse than a fucking septa'.

The words bit. Sansa's face set. She lay back down, deliberately facing away from him. After a few minutes, she heard the Hound shifting, and the shake of his mail. He was breathing heavily, and was trying to keep his grunts quiet. She lay still, exhaustion beginning to work over her in waves, and shut her eyes to the repeated slosh of wine in its skin.


	4. Chapter 4

She couldn't have slept more than a few hours. The morning light was queasy, and a mist that was almost rain clung to the trees. Sansa's limbs were stiff with cold. Her stomach cramped with a dull ache of hunger. She stretched out slowly and carefully, wiggling her numb toes, and rolled over. The Hound was asleep, sitting up against the same tree trunk. He looked a mess. His mouth hung open and his hair was bedraggled, stuck to his face with the damp of the morning and the blood. He'd removed his armour and mail and was dressed only in his breeches, shirt and boots. His Kingsguard cloak covered his legs and his sword lay across his lap. He looked smaller without his armour, though his shoulders were still broader than most. He had wrapped torn material around his left shoulder and chest, the centre of which was dark with blood. It wouldn't kill him, she could see that; but it didn't look good.

She needed to relieve herself. She arose as quietly as she could, keeping the blanket wrapped around her, and stole quietly further into the copse, trying to ignore her throbbing, saddle-sore inner thighs, and looking for a place hidden from him.

The wood was so quiet. There was no birdsong, or branches rustling. Only a thickly chilled silence. Anyone could be out here. Soldiers fighting for the Starks or the Lannisters, bandits, or hungry paupers who'd fled through the open gate at King's Landing after they'd ridden away. She pulled her dress up over her knees, hardly daring to look around, and crouched down. She willed herself to go quickly, feeling exposed and vulnerable. As she shook herself, she suddenly stiffened. It was as if the wolf-sense was in her. There was no sound but she felt the hairs on her arms and legs rise and her neck prickle. She held her breath, and kept her hands close to her ankles, her dress still hovering around her knees.

There was a crunch of a twig underfoot and in a heartbeat someone was very near her. Sansa whipped Shae's bound dagger from its ankle hoop, standing up as she did so. With a cry, she wheeled around, and stabbed wildly at the hand that was suddenly in the air in front of her.


	5. Chapter 5

'FUCK!'

Too late, she saw what she had done. The Hound gave a ragged cry, staggering back and looking bewilderingly at his palm. He swore again, loudly, his voice echoing around the wood. Blood began to drip at his wrist. Sansa looked at him in horror, mouth open. And then she ran.

She did not run far. She knew she could not continue on her own in these wildlands. Sobbing, she slowed, and stopped, leaning over to pant. She was still clenching the dagger; nearly half of the blade had a thin sheen of blood. It must have gone almost right through his hand. Oh Gods, what had she done? She turned and retraced her steps, picking up the blanket she'd dropped on the way.

As she reached the edge of the small clearing where they had slept, she could see him sitting there, where he'd slept, his back to her. She placed one foot in front of the other as slowly as she could.

'You've a nerve.'

She stopped dead. He didn't turn round. 'I'm sorry.'

'Come to finish me off?' She couldn't tell how angry he was.

His hair hung over the burnt side of his face. She took a tentative step forward and took a deep breath. 'From the bottom of my heart –'

He cut her off. 'Save your fancy words.' He was holding his hand up at his chest. 'Come here.' She wavered. 'Come _here,_' he said again, more threateningly.

Sansa stepped up to him, waiting for – she didn't know what. Maybe that was it. She'd gone too far, attacking him. He wouldn't forgive her in a hurry. Maybe he'd kill her now, make it easier to get further on his own. Her heart hammered.

He looked up at her sidelong, inscrutable. 'Planning to use that again, are you?' He nodded at her hand. The dagger was still gripped tightly in her hand. She shook her head. 'Give it here.'

Sansa wilted, and held out her hand.

The Hound took the dagger with his good hand quickly and placed it, with the blade flat, underneath his legs. 'Gods, girl, what were you doing out there?' he snapped, more animatedly angry. 'I wake up and you're gone. I thought you'd been stolen by brigands, or worse. Gods.'

Sansa blushed. 'I was just – I had to...' She looked down at the ground.

He suddenly understood, and closed his eyes and shook his head. 'Well, you didn't need to go wandering so far into the damned woods. I'll not fucking bite. Unlike you.' He exhaled a sudden, sour laugh. 'You're a Stark and no mistake.'

Sansa flushed and looked down at her feet. 'I'm so truly sorry, I didn't know it was you, I – panicked.'

'Oh that's what it was, then? Didn't look like panic to me. King's Landing didn't leach all the wolfblood from you, did it? Damn near crucified me.'

Sansa looked down at his hand. 'Does it – does it hurt?'

'Ay, it hurts. Reckon you'd flinch a bit if someone speared your palm right through.' He held it up for her to see.

There was a deep crescent-shaped gash in the middle of his hand, curving around the bottom of his thumb. Blood had trailed down his wrist and between his fingers. He leant towards her, his voice dropping to a near-growl. 'That's my sword hand.'

Sansa's mouth drooped. 'Please ser, let me help.'

'Enough of your sers.' He sniffed. 'I need to get to some water. Clean this all up.' He gestured to his shoulder. 'Some good I'm going to be. Get me some food.' He nodded to his stallion's saddlebag.

Sansa walked over to the horses. They were filthy from the muddy ride away from the city. The stallion stamped a hoof and moved away as she reached to the bag on the ground. She pulled out bread and apples, her muscles tense, and took them over to the Hound, not daring to make eye contact.

He tore some chunks off the bread, using his knees to hold it, and handed her a piece. 'Eat.'

Sansa sat down a few feet away. She kept her eyes on the ground, and chewed glumly. The bread was slightly stale.

'Where did you get that damned blade?' he asked, his mouth full.

Sansa hesitated, knowing he wouldn't like the answer. 'Shae gave it to me'.

He exhaled sharply. 'Ay, and I should have known. That vicious bitch.'

The insult stung. 'Don't call her that. She was just trying to protect me. She was the only one – ' she looked at him, and then down at her bread. 'She was one of the only ones who looked out for me.'

There was a pause. The Hound eyed her more curiously. 'You know she is Tyrion's bitch, don't you?'

Sansa almost laughed. 'What? That's slander. She was my lady's maid.'

He scoffed. 'She was no maid. He tried to keep it under his sleeve but I knew. Saw her creeping into his chambers of an evening after leaving you, and not coming out. Sly imp. All I had to do was mention it to the queen and that girl would have had been a bloody head on a spike.'

'So why didn't you?' She refused to accept it.

He looked at her more thoughtfully. 'I think he put her with you to keep you safe. And it worked, didn't it? She would have put my eyes out that last night given half the chance.'

Surely it was fiction. Her Shae, bedding Tyrion Lannister? He was the kindest of the family, there was no doubt, and had come to her aid more than once. But he was so devious, and so… small. 'So… they were lovers?'

The Hound snorted. 'Seven hells knows how a man that size can please a woman. But you get what you pay for I suppose.'

'What do you mean?'

The Hound looked over at her and raised his eyebrows. Sansa looked at him, puzzled. His shoulders dropped and he sighed, exasperated. 'She was his _whore_, you green girl. Were you that closeted?'

Sansa felt her cheeks flush. Shae, a whore? It didn't seem possible. The Hound was laughing under his breath at her. She chewed her bread angrily and glared at the ground.

After a few more moments, with the only sound the Hound chomping unselfconsciously on an apple, he shifted, looking at his injured hand. 'Right. We need to move.'

Sansa got up quickly and waited for his instruction.

He looked at her. 'You need to change out of that.' Sansa looked down at her greyblue gown. 'Did you bring another?' She nodded. 'Go on, then.'

She went to her bundle and pulled out the brown woollen dress and looked around nervously.

'Go on,' he said again, nodding to the large oak beneath which she had slept. 'Don't stab anyone.'

It was just wide enough to conceal her from him. She loosed the cloak and reached for the ties at the back of her neck, struggling slightly. It was awkward. Shae normally did this. As quickly as she could, she eased off the dress over her smock, stepped out of it, and pulled herself into the brown dress, hoping that the Hound couldn't see her. She didn't dare look. She managed to do it up at the back and emerged, walking back over to him.

The Hound looked up at her as she approached, his face impassive. 'Better. But you still look like a damned highborn to me.'

Sansa smoothed the dress down with her hands and looked at him resolutely. 'I can't help it,' she said.

'Maybe I need to give you a few cuts and bruises. Roll you around in the mud a bit.' He was unsmiling.

Sansa glared at him. His mouth twitched slightly, then he nodded at the other gown which was draped over her hand. 'I need that.'

She handed it to him, puzzled. He put the hem of the skirt between his teeth and pulled. She gave a sharp breath in as the material tore, a jagged sound, startlingly loud. 'What are you _doing_?'

The Hound didn't reply, continuing to rip off a long strip and then wrapping it around the palm and thumb of his wounded hand, and then holding it up to inspect his handiwork. 'There. Might as well have a pretty bandage for it.'

That was one of her favourite dresses. She knew he was doing it to punish her, but steeled herself not to give him any satisfaction. 'It does look _very_ pretty,' she said.

He looked at her with a mixture of scowl and smile. 'Brush the horses down and pack all this up', he said, gesturing to the blankets and food.

She did as she was bid. The Hound rolled up his white cloak and kicking piles of leaves and earth to one side to make a small well in the ground, before placing it there and roughly covering it up. The mare nuzzled into Sansa's hand, and she brushed her down with a piece of rough sackcloth. When she looked over again, she could see the Hound cursing as he tried to manoeuvre himself into his armour.

The destrier snorted as she approached him. He was so huge. One kick and she'd be brained.

'Go on.' The Hound had walked up behind her.

Sansa eyed the horse nervously. 'He doesn't like me.'

'You're looking affrighted, that's why. He respects a steady hand.'

Sansa put a hand out tentatively and placed it on the horse's neck. She could feel the great muscles tense but kept her hand flat there. The Hound handed her an apple. She swallowed, and held it out to the stallion, who exhaled noisily at her, exploring the air in front of her hand, before taking a step closer and biting into it with an alarmingly loud crunch, his huge lips pared back. Sansa's heart was hammering.

'You'll always win Stranger round with an apple.' The Hound patted him forcefully on the flank.

Stranger. That's what the stable boy had said. Of course. There'd be no gentle names for the Hound's horse. It was just like him.

They saddled them both, Sansa helping the Hound as best she could, him wincing at every move.

He looked at his hand and his other injured shoulder, and gestured to her mare. 'You'd best get on her yourself',

Sansa tried to swing herself up, but the mare moved uneasily and she slid off. She tried unsuccessfully twice more, her cheeks growing angrily red as the Hound watched her, amused. Finally, she walked the mare to a tree with a gnarled, protruding root at knee height, and used it to hoist herself higher before clambering in a very unladylike manner onto her horse.

The Hound swung himself onto his destrier, groaning slightly. 'Let's go'.

He began to move off, and Sansa brought up her reins, wondering what he'd done with her dagger.

'And girl?' The Hound didn't turn round.

'Yes?'

'You owe me. I'll have a favour off you one of these days.'


	6. Chapter 6

They rode north on the road they had left at dawn, slowly and in silence. Before long they branched off, taking a smaller path. Sansa felt very exposed in daylight, even in her plain dress and the Hound's cloak, but they encountered no one. A small, flashing river appeared alongside them, before veering off away from the track. They followed its path until the river became shallow, and dismounted.

The Hound tied Stranger's reins to a large oak. 'Clean yourself up.'

Sansa shrugged. 'I'm alright.'

He looked at her impatiently. 'There'll not be a hot bath every evening on the road, you know.'

'I know.' She felt indignant. 'I know you think I'm a spoilt little girl but I'm not. I'm fine.'

The Hound grunted. 'Suit yourself.' He began to shrug off his armour awkwardly.

Sansa led her mare to a grassy, gently shelving bank with a small curve of hard mud beach. Her horse dipped her head gratefully, shuddering into it, and began to drink. Sansa stroked her neck where the muscles quivered, weaving her fingers through her matted mane, the colour of barley. She was so tired. Her buttocks and legs were so sore from riding her, but they had to go on. She refused to give him the satisfaction of complaining about anything: her drab dress, the stale bread, the cold, and her aching legs. She would prove him wrong about her; that she wasn't a prissy, cosseted lady. That she was a Stark, just like he'd said.

Splashing sounds made her glance round. The Hound was sitting in his shirt and breeches on the low bank, legs in the river, bringing water up to his face and gasping into it. His armour was on the grass. He began to pull off his shirt and Sansa quickly turned back to her mare, feeling her cheeks flush. He had so little decorum, bold as anything out there in the open.

She scratched the neck of her horse, and hummed a shred of a lullaby very quietly to herself. The mare's thirst sated, she led her back to the trees, keeping her eyes on the ground. She tied her to the tree next to Stranger, and went to the stallion's reins. He whickered slightly, but she resolutely walked him to the river, trying not to show her fear. In the corner of her eye, the Hound was re-wrapping the old shirt he'd used as a bandage around his pale shoulder again. He was cursing under his breath.

Stranger seemed to want to drink the entire river, but she pulled him away after filling the waterskins up, and led him back to her mare. As she tied him to the oak, he rolled his eyes at her and snorted. She breathed a rush of air through her nose back at him, and his ears twitched. She touched his neck carefully. 'You're not so bad, are you, Stranger?'

Sansa turned back to the bank. The Hound had pulled his shirt back on and seemed to be sitting very still. She felt so guilty. His _sword_ hand. He could have been anyone, though. Why had he been creeping up on her like that?

She scuffed her feet on the ground, and noticed a flash of deep orange in the bushes next to the oak tree. She walked over to have a look. It was jewelweed, the muted green leaves harbouring little flowers shaped like bell sleeves, bright red in the centre. She knew it had healing properties – Maester Luwin had liked to teach her about plants and herbs; she'd even embroidered jewelwood flowers after studying some in the weirwood. She knelt down and picked a few clumps, flowers too, and mashed them in her fists. She pulled out her violet dress from her mare's saddlebag, took a deep breath, and walked over to him.

The Hound was starting to wind the bandage he'd made with the hem of her dress back round his wounded hand. He'd washed off the blood from his palm and wrist.

Sansa stood at his shoulder. 'You should - have a fresh one.'

He glanced round and up at her, suspicious, before turning back to the river. 'Ay, if you like.'

She turned her dress upside down and looked at the torn hem. Well, it was ruined now anyway. Putting the frayed edge between her teeth, she bit down hard and pulled it, as he had done, loudly ripping off a long strip, and then knelt down on the bank next to him.

She opened her hand, full of crumpled jewelweed, slowly springing back out into her palm. The juice trickled down her little finger. 'Also – you should put this on it'.

The Hound looked at her, and at her outstretched hand in faint surprise. 'What are you now, a _maegi_?'

'It should soothe the pain a little,' Sansa said, as firmly as she dared. 'Our maester taught me'.

He raised his eyebrows slightly. 'First you stab me, then you want to patch me up. How do I know that's not poisonous?

'I need you to get me to Winterfell,' Sansa said, with quiet resolution. 'I'll poison you once I'm back home.' The Hound shot her a dark, amused look.

Without really thinking, she took up his hand. He stiffened, and his expression turned to one of mild alarm, and wariness. She held his palm face up, with her own hand, so much smaller and paler than his, beneath it, and bunched the ball of mulched jewelweed against the large, rude cut that curved round his thumb. Holding the leaves there with her thumb, she took the new strip of her dress in her other hand and leant down to the river to wet it. As she did so, she could feel his arm muscles tense to hold her there, a balancing act of her thumb and fingers around his hand, and his whole frame holding her up. She tightened her grip to pull herself back up, and then began to wrap the soaked bandage diagonally around his hand, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on her work.

His breathing was long and quiet, and she felt his eyes move up to her face. She wound the rag around his thumb, tucked its end under the main bandage and folded her hands down at her lap. He continued to hold his hand in the air, a big dark palm slung with faded violet flowers.

'There.' Sansa looked up to meet his gaze. She couldn't tell what it meant: a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and - something else, darker.

The unburnt side of his face was turned towards her; he hadn't done a job of washing it. Feeling brazen, and aware of how yielding he'd suddenly become, she reached round to take up her damaged dress, and quickly tore off another scrap of material. She leant back again to the river to wet it, and put it up to his face. The Hound flinched then, jerking backwards in a tiny movement.

Sansa pulled back her hand. 'It's just – you've still got blood on your face'.

Whilst he didn't move, she could see his shoulders lower just a little, and he kept his cheek turned to her. She lifted the rag again, and, her heart throwing itself at her ribcage, began to dab very gently at his eyebrow. He kept totally still, his eyes fixed fiercely on the river.

She shifted her knees a little closer to him, to clean his cheekbone and the side of his nose. 'Can you –' He looked at her. His eyes were just inches from hers. 'The other side,' she said, as delicately as she could.

There was a pause. Then the Hound slowly turned the burnt side of his face towards her, looking down at her knees. It was the first time that she had really, properly, looked at it. The skin was marbled, white and red, stretched taut in places, and sunken in others, and angrily shiny. A clump of hair was stuck to his temple with dark, dried blood. Sansa gingerly used her other hand to pull it away, her sleeve brushing his forehead. She had to tug it more than once, and was sure that it must hurt, but he didn't move.

She wiped the blood clean in two short swipes, and lowered her hands. 'There.' He raised his brown-grey eyes up to her, his face still turned downwards. He looked almost vulnerable. She smiled. 'You look a little less monstrous.' She wished the words back as soon as she'd uttered them. They hung in the air.

His eyes steeled, and the Hound returned. 'A _little_ less.'

'A _lot_ less,' she said quickly, hopelessly.

He got up, grabbing his wineskin and taking a swig, before jamming the cork back in and stalking back to the horses.


	7. Chapter 7

After that, they rode without talking for most of the day, Sansa riding behind the Hound, who almost never turned round. Every time she remembered what she had said, she bit on her tongue, hard. She was an idiot. She'd got him to soften, just for a moment, and ruined it.

They stopped in the middle of the afternoon to rest the horses. The Hound wordlessly passed her some salt beef from his saddlebag and she sat some paces away from him, feeling miserable. The beef needed endless chewing. Her legs ached maddeningly. As they got back on their horses, she asked timidly what route they were taking. She had realised that she had no idea where they were. He could be taking her anywhere and she wouldn't know the difference.

The Hound sniffed. 'We're shadowing the kingsroad. It'd be madness to be out in the open on it. Too many enemies to meet.' He seemed to read her thoughts, and looked at her bitterly. 'Don't worry, we're heading north.' He clicked his tongue to Stranger and moved off.

He obviously knew how to avoid people. They hadn't seen a soul by the time the moon was bright, a doleful eye peeping through the trees. They came to rest in a small dell surrounded by hazel and birch trees, and the Hound instructed Sansa to find firewood. It was good to be further away from him and his accusatory silence for a few minutes, even if it did mean going on her own. She walked in a circle a little way from the dell gathering the driest sticks she could find, moving between the puddles of moonlight, and trying not to imagine who, or _what_, might be watching her from the darkness.

When she returned, the horses were laid down for the night, and the blankets unpacked. The Hound was kneeling awkwardly over a small bundle of moss and leaves, and whittling a small thin stick into a flatter piece of wood, swearing quietly as the sparks failed to take. His shoulder was clearly hampering him. Sansa placed her bundle of branches down and sat down on a blanket.

'Get us some food, then,' muttered the Hound from his crouching position.

Gods, he was so rude. She got up again, and found bread, cheese, and salt beef, which she looked at glumly. The pale cheese was sweating slightly now. It made her think of Lord Varys' forehead. King's Landing might have been a prison, but they had fed her well. Sweetmeats, cakes, cream… She hoped desperately that they'd find an inn soon.

The Hound finally started a fire. As the flames flickered, he eyed them warily, blowing on them gingerly and piling Sansa's sticks on top, and then sat back heavily, tearing at the bread that she'd left by his side. They ate, silently, both looking into the fire, Sansa seated on the other side of the flames.

He licked his fingers. 'That's the last of it. We'll have to find our own food tomorrow'.

No inns yet then. Was he going to avoid them on purpose, both so as not to encounter anyone and to punish her? Soon enough she'd be sinking her teeth into raw deer flesh like a proper direwolf.

'Cat got your tongue, girl?'

She looked up at him, her chin resting on her knees, which she was hugging tightly to her chest. 'I don't have anything to say.'

The Hound snorted. 'I find that hard to believe'.

Sansa stared into the fire. His silent treatment of her was obviously over for the day. Fine. She'd talk to him. 'Did Joffrey know that you left?'

He took a swig from his wineskin, which never seemed to run out. 'Ay, reckon he did.'

'What did he say? He didn't _let_ you go?'

'He didn't say much. But I did tell him to fuck himself.'

Sansa breathed in slowly, looking at him with something close to admiration. To have seen Joffrey's face. But - his wrath would be terrible.

The Hound read her thoughts. 'He had it coming. I was too long in that place.'

All the awful things he must have done under Joffrey's command. Killing Ayra's butcher boy. The battle, and so many other killings. But - he hadn't been forced. He could have gone at any time. She went to speak, but hesitated.

'Go on,' he said, a slight provocation in his voice. 'What else?'

'At the Gate. Why did you kill that last guard? You didn't have to.'

'Didn't I?'

He wanted to scare her. 'You said to me before that killing was a sweet thing. Do you really mean that?'

The Hound breathed in jaggedly. 'When you're brought up fighting, it's what you do best. And yes, there is satisfaction in it. Maybe one day you'll see that.'

Sansa looked at him. 'I can't see it. Not even for my enemies.'

'What, so you don't want to see Joffrey's head on a spike? I didn't take you for a liar.'

She gazed into the flames. 'I want Joffrey dead. But I wouldn't feel satisfied. It won't bring my father back. Or Arya.'

They were silent. The sound of the fire was like someone clapping gnats on their skin. Sansa thought over the night of the battle. 'Why did you come for me?'

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. 'Gods, girl, is this an inquisition?

'You said you wanted me to talk,' said Sansa, slightly sulkily.

'Ay, well, that's enough,' said the Hound, suddenly irritable. 'Sleep'

Sansa sighed, deeply. She _was_ exhausted, by the riding and lack of food, and by him, as changeable as a northern sky. That moment by the river was long gone. She tucked herself up in her blanket and cloak as best she could, rolling over to remove a stone that was digging into her back, and tilting back to face the fire. The warmth on her face slowed her breathing, and brought her dreams.


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa woke up with her teeth chattering. The fire was a mass of black, withered sticks. Opposite, there was a bundle of blanket and dark cloak where the Hound had slept. She sat up quickly, and looked around. The horses were both there, lying down, their tails switching. He couldn't have gone far. She stood up, rubbing her numb legs and arms. The cold was in the marrow of her bones. It almost burnt. She had dreamt of Lady and Nymeria, padding side by side through a silent, snow-laden forest, ravens in their mouths. The ravens were squawking 'stop! STOP!' at her in wizened voices like Old Nan's, even as the wolves crunched their bones. She shuddered at the memory, stamping her feet on the hard ground, and jumping up and down to try and pound her toes back into life.

'Someone needs a dancing master.' The Hound was walking up from behind her, with two hares slung over his good shoulder.

Sansa stopped and eyed at them slightly queasily. 'Where did you get those?'

He looked at her nonchalantly. 'Magic.' She put her hands on her hips. 'I'll show you next time,' he said with half a grin, and waggled one of them at her. 'Want to break your fast?'

Sansa shook her head hurriedly. 'I'm not hungry.'

The Hound slung them both into his saddlebag, guffawing. 'You will be later.'

Great. This was the sort of life Arya would thrive off. Trapping animals, sleeping in ditches, getting her hair and her skin and her face filthy and not caring. More than that: _loving_ being filthy and acting like a boy. Sansa spent the morning's journey, her stomach grumbling all the while, dreaming of a hot bath filled by Shae, steaming with lavender oil, slick curves on the surface of the water. As she imagined sinking down into the water, dousing her head, something caught her eye in the bushes.

She halted her mare and slid off. Blackberries. There were brambles full of blackberries. There were only clumps of red, unripe ones at the front, but glisteningly dark ones were nestled in amongst the bracken. She stretched onto her tiptoes, hanging onto a branch, and plucked one off. It came easily, and she popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes at the little burst of intense, sweet-sharp flavour on her tongue. She began to pick.

The Hound had gone on ahead, and finally trotted Stranger back to see what she was doing. Sansa turned round to him, holding the skirt of her dress in front of her in a well. It was brimming with blackberries. He took her in, twitching a smile. Her hands were covered in fine scratches, threads at the front of her dress had snagged here and there on the bramble thorns, and she'd stuffed herself so full of berries she felt happily sick.

She staggered over to him, holding her skirt out. 'Where can I put these?'

He felt behind him for his saddlebag, pulled out a small sack and passed it down to her so that she could tip them in. He was about to fasten it behind him when she put her hand on Stranger's lower neck.

'Wait – '. He looked down at her questioningly. 'You have to try some.

He brought the sack round to his lap and grabbed a squashy handful, whilst Sansa held Stranger's reins. He tipped the lot into his mouth in one go, and crunched.

'Good?' She patted Stranger.

He nodded his approval begrudgingly. She grinned up at him, and he looked at her with amusement, still chewing. Suddenly, he leant down to her, put the thumb of his bandaged hand to the corner of her mouth and gently dabbed it before she knew what was happening.

'You've blackberries on you.' He winched himself back up, and Sansa let the horse's reins fall. He moved away, and she licked her own thumb and wiped the corner of her mouth. She looked at the purple stain, and then at the Hound as he rode slowly away.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa watched the Hound and Stranger ahead of her as he ducked under low boughs in the thick wood. She seemed to exasperate him beyond measure, yet there were glimmers of a different side to him. Touching her mouth back there like that; he had done it with something approaching tenderness. Like he'd done on the bridge at King's Landing after Ser Meryn had hit her, when she'd thought about killing Joffrey. He'd made her see that she had to play a different game. Or when he'd given her his Kingsguard cloak in the throne room. He had always been looking out for her, though she'd perhaps not always realised it.

They picked up a rugged path, freshly grooved with the imprint of cart wheels.

'We might have company.' The Hound nodded ahead of him.

Sansa followed his eyes. Up on the brow of the small hill ahead of them was a horse and cart, heading in the same direction. He picked up the pace. As they got nearer to him, she could see that the cart was filled with barrels.

The Hound shifted his sword belt around so that the scabbard was near his hand. 'It's my lucky day.'

'What are you doing? Why do you need that?'

'I'm having some wine off him', replied the Hound offhandedly.

'You can't just _steal_ it.'

'I can.'

'But why? It's not yours to take'.

The Hound craned his neck round to look at her. 'Gods girl, what are you, my bloody conscience? I mean to have some. My wineskin is bone dry, this - ' he jerked his head down at his shoulder - 'and _this_ - ' he jabbed his hand at her accusatorily – 'need dulling, and I need something to get me through the nights while you're tweeting in my ear.'

He clicked his tongue at Stranger, who cantered on. Sansa, infuriated, spurred her mare on after him.

He was almost on the horse and cart when she caught up. The wineseller was a large man, sweating profusely. He pulled up, his horse neighing, and looked round nervously at the Hound. Sansa remembered how fearsome he could look to a stranger, especially when on his horse. He towered over the man, and his burns raged in the sunlight.

'How goes it, ser?' she heard the cart-driver ask tentatively, squinting up at him.

The Hound was eyeing his barrels. 'What have you got in there?'

'Ambers, from Pentos, since you ask.'

The Hound sniffed then, looking a little disappointed. 'Where are you headed?'

'Down to the Reach, if I ever make it. Trying to avoid the city.' He seemed to be gaining confidence. 'Have you come from there?'

The Hound slid off Stranger, his hand hovering dangerously near his sword. Sansa hastily spurred her mare on the last few paces.

'Good day, ser,' she said as brightly as she could.

The man's eyes swivelled round to her. 'And to you, good lady.' He looked her up and down. 'You're a pretty one'.

The Hound's fingers closed around the sword's handle. 'She'll not look so pretty when I've taken both your eyes out.

The man gulped, startled. 'N – no, no ser, I meant no offence.'You don't see many ladies as fine as this out on this road, is all I meant -' The Hound narrowed his eyes. 'By which I mean to say – I don't want any trouble, ser - '

'Can we buy some wine?' Sansa interrupted. The Hound looked up at her. She carried on innocently. 'Will you let us fill our wineskins? We have coin.' She glared down at him. 'Don't we?'

He gave the faintest roll of his eyes and reached for the coin bag on his belt. 'Ay.'

With the cart rattling off behind them, and the wineseller still shouting his relieved good days to their backs, the Hound unpopped a cork with his teeth and began to drink. After the first swallow he grimaced, as if he was going to spit it out. Then he took several hearty gulps, and wiped his mouth with a deep sigh. 'Well, you're nothing but trouble'.

Sansa shook her head at him from her mare, wonderingly. 'You don't have to go around killing people all the time, you know. For _wine_. There are such things as being kind and polite.'

'Ay, and we'll see how far your pleases and thank yous get you when we bump into some Lannister freeriders.' He looked at his wineskin, and thrust it up at her.

She shook her head vehemently. 'Why did you come for me, if you knew I'd be so much trouble?'

The Hound sighed, packing his skins into his saddlebag. 'I don't like bullies.' Sansa stifled a laugh, and then quickly looked down, but he caught it. He'd almost grinned back, but then grew serious. 'If we'd have won, and Joffrey remained king…' He looked at her penetratingly. 'I didn't like to think of you there, without - ' he turned back to his horse – 'me to keep an eye on you.'

'What would he have done?' Sansa asked, as he mounted Stranger.

'You don't want to know.

She did, and she didn't. 'Did he - speak of me to you?'

He looked at her suddenly, and searchingly. 'Trust me. I spent all my hours as his shadow. I saw all too well what sort of past-times pleased that boy. Things would have gotten a lot worse without me around. Come on.'

It had almost grown dark by the time they found a brackish stream to settle down beside for their camp. As Sansa returned with firewood, The Hound held up one of the hares that had hung down headfirst from Stranger's saddle for most of the day. 'Time for one of these. I'll show you how to skin it.'

She shifted from foot to foot. 'Do I have to?'

'Ay. If you're going to eat it, you should learn.'

'Maybe I won't eat it then.' She looked at him unconfidently.

'And what else are you going to dine upon this evening, my lady?' He gave her a wry glance. 'Roast duck and figs? Almond cakes? Come on. Come and watch.'

The Hound gestured to the ground next to him. Sansa frowned despondently, knowing that she had little choice. She was starving. She folded her blanket up and sat neatly on top of it, not far from his shoulder.

He pulled out her dagger from his belt and waved it at her. 'Next time you see that maid of yours, you can tell her this got hares _and_ Ωunds.'

Guffawing loudly to himself, he made a little slit in the belly of the animal, deftly drawing the dagger all the way round its middle. Sansa felt like she might throw up at any second, but steeled herself to watch, trying to look nonchalant. She'd seen her father's head on a spike. She could watch this.

The Hound began to roll the fur off the back legs, revealing the marbled pink and grey flesh. He was doing most of the work with his good arm, but still moved deftly. He swiftly chopped off its head and held it by the back legs, letting the blood flow out onto the ground. She closed her eyes then, and opened them to the sickening crunch of the hare's feet as he snapped them off, as easy as breaking twigs. Scoring the dagger down the ribcage, he then put the glistening blade between his teeth to free both hands to pull out the guts, which slithered out, glistening and brown. He pulled out the heart and lungs, giving them a good squeeze, the blood seeping down into the mud, and finally held up the hare's lean, stricken body proudly. He caught Sansa looking queasy, and grinned. 'Let's eat.'

By the time they'd cooked and eaten the hare, Sansa picking carefully at the meat he'd given her, the Hound was drunk. He'd been drinking since he bought that wine, Sansa thought. He didn't even like the taste that much. He'd been glowering more with every swig, and made her want to shrink away from him. She picked herself up to fetch her blanket for the night, and remembered her bundle. She brought it back to the fire. It was beginning to die down, and the Hound was poking it with his feet, trying to get it going again.

Sansa spread out her bundle on the ground in front of her and picked up her jewels, one by one. The direwolf charm, her grandmother's, given to her on her eleventh name day. She'd never liked their sigil when she was younger, it was too rough, too wild – she'd always wanted a golden rose like the Tyrells, or the sun and spear of the Martells - but after they'd been given the wolf puppies, she'd grown to love it. She turned the heavy silver charm over in her palm and placed it carefully down again. She held up the filigree gold necklace that Joffrey had given her, on the day that he'd kissed her. Her only kiss. She'd sworn that he'd tasted of rosewater, had brought her fingers up to her lips for the rest of the day. For the rest of the _week_. Gods, how stupid and green she'd been, how simpering and willing to please.

Finally, she picked up her doll, the present from Father. She could picture the hurt in his eyes when she'd got up from the table when he'd given it to her, like an old dog whose master wasn't taking it out with him. She'd been so ungrateful and unkind then, blinded by the glamour of the castle, wanting nothing more than to be seen as a proper lady. She held it above her lap and gazed at it, feeling her throat thicken.

'Aren't you a bit old for one of those?' The Hound was looking over the fire at her, his arms folded, amused

She looked at him impassively, but couldn't keep the sadness out of her voice. 'Father gave it to me. He was trying to be kind, after what happened with Joffrey and Lady, that's all.'

'Ay, well he misjudged a lot of things, didn't he?' said the Hound with offhand spite, picking up a large stick and poking the fire.

Sansa looked up at him furiously, but didn't give him the satisfaction of a retort. He could be so cruel. It was maddening. She watched him rear back slightly as a flame flared up, quickly brushing his hair out of his face. He added more sticks carefully and sat back on his haunches.

'I know about your face', she said, quietly, suddenly.

There was a pause. 'Oh, you do, do you?' His face was half in shadow.

'Yes.'

The Hound's eyes were dark. 'Go on then.'

Sansa was feeling less bold by the second. 'You were a boy and had taken the Mounta – your brother's wooden toy, so he - held you in the fire'.

He stared fiercely into the growing flames. 'Who told you that?'

'Littlefinger. I mean, Ser Baelish. At the tourney.'

'And who did _you_ tell?' asked the Hound, still not looking at her, his voice now edged with menace.

'No one! I mean, Ayra was there when he told me, and she probably heard, but I didn't tell anyone. Why would I?'

The Hound breathed out, hard, his face unreadable.

'Why does it matter?'

He suddenly leant towards her violently, half-snarling. 'Why does it matter? I'm the _Hound_. People are afraid of me because they think _this_' – he jabbed a finger towards his face - 'is a battle scar, not the mark of a whimpering little boy. If they knew, I'd be a laughing stock'.

Sansa realised that she wasn't afraid of him anymore, and never would be. 'No one knows. No one else. I promise.' She looked at him unflinchingly. 'What he did to you -' The Hound's shoulders lowered, and he looked wounded. 'He… he is the cruellest man I've ever heard of -' She stopped, thinking of Joffrey. But even Joffrey wouldn't do that to his own kin, to Tommen, or Myrcella.

The Hound took a long breath in, his chest expanding slowly, and turned to face the fire again, the light flickering on his face. 'Once I get you back home, I'll kill him', he said calmly to the fire, and suddenly sober.

Sansa couldn't find a reply. She realised that this was something he'd intended to do for many years, waiting for the right time. He looked fiercely pensive, and suddenly more human, than she'd seen him before. Those burns had been his brother's curse on him; he'd never be rid of them, but he could be rid of the man who'd given them to him. She watched the rough spit he'd made blacken above the fire.

'Are you – burnt all over?' she asked, immediately wishing that she hadn't.

The Hound leaned over, suddenly vicious, sneering. 'Want to see?'

Sansa felt her neck flush but held his eyes resolutely for a moment, enough to see them cloud slightly with guilt, before she turned her face away. 'You don't need to be so horrible.'

He was silent. She knew he couldn't say sorry. He was too proud. It was ridiculous.

'You shouldn't drink so much wine. It's the wine that makes you say such horrible things, like killing is the sweetest thing, or that you want me to sing, or – or -'. She sighed, and looked up at him angrily. She didn't care if he was cruel to her again. She would say her piece.

It came out in a rush. 'And don't say it's because you're the Hound, because that's no excuse. You don't have to be like that to me. Not anymore. It's just - _me_. Why would you want me to be frightened of you when you wanted to rescue me? It doesn't make sense. You don't need to punish me. I know you think I'm just a stupid little girl, but I'm trying to be better, and I'm so grateful to you for getting me away from there, I really am. Just - stop being so mean.

She picked herself up, with her doll, moving as far away from him as she could whilst still being in the firelight, and lay down with her back to him. She couldn't believe that she was still wearing the same dress that she had been in for two days and nights. She felt filthy, hungry, and cold, even with the fire. She was furious at the tears that pricked her eyes as she squeezed them shut. Gods, she wished she was at Winterfell, with her mother, and the Maester, and Old Nan, and her brothers, and Arya. She missed Arya so much. She hugged her doll to her chest, its straw edges poking into her skin

'Sansa.'

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. It was the first time she'd ever heard him use her name. He said it so quietly from over at the other side of the fire that she thought maybe she'd imagined it. She opened her eyes, holding her breath, lying still.

'Gregor. It was my face. He just held my face down.'

She waited for more, but none came. She closed her eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

They didn't speak anymore of his face, or his brother. They began another day of of riding, stopping at streams to fill their skins and feed the horses, and resting. Sansa was beginning to get used to feeling constantly filthy, though was horrified at the tangled mess her hair seemed to have become, and ran her fingers through it when ever she had the chance. Her thighs were raging less from the constant bump of the saddle on her mare, who she'd named Sorrel. Probably out of sheer hunger.

She looked for food everywhere, her sense of smell heightened, keenly eyeing the dark corners of bushes, or looking over her head. Clumps of pungent wild garlic, small, bitter apples as pink as scrubbed cheeks, even some mushrooms. He never said anything, just watching her amusedly as she filled her saddlebag or just ate, apart from to warn her off the tiny hard berries, hanging like bright rubies, over their heads.

The next night Sansa stood behind the Hound as he began his work on the fire. 'Ser.' He looked round. 'Will you teach me how to do that?' She gestured to the wood and flint.

He looked at her, half-impressed, but didn't reply. She crouched down next to him, her arms resting on her knees, peering at his pile of tinder and sticks. He tucked some of his hair behind his good ear, and showed her the ball of moss and loose shreds of dry bark which acted as tinder; the dry leaves laid on top; using her dagger to dig a hole in a flat piece of wood, and to sharpen the drill stick, and the flat, rough bit of bark underneath.

After many whittles, and more creative curses than Sansa had ever heard from him before, the tinder caught the first few sparks, and they quickly and carefully added small sticks to it. The Hound sat back quickly, and Sansa continued adding sticks.

'I'll do it tomorrow then,' she said.

He looked at her with sceptical amusement. 'Will you now?'

She nodded. 'Then you don't have to.'

He suddenly flushed with embarrassment, and looked down at the ground angrily. 'There's no need for that.'

'I want to', she said, simply, persistently. 'I want to try.'

No more was said, but he didn't protest further. They ate the second hare, and he produced a tiny black pot she didn't know he had so that she could boil her mushrooms. Little was said, but he seemed to be drinking his wine more slowly.

In the middle of the night, Sansa opened her eyes with a start. There was a rumbling in the distance – she couldn't tell how far away. Horses? Carts? Soldiers? She rolled onto her back and sat up on her elbows, listening intently

'It's thunder.' He spoke quietly. She looked over, and could just make out his form – sitting up, a large mound in a blanket, on the other side of the smouldering fire. 'Go back to sleep.'

Sansa shivered, and wrapped her blanket and cloak more tightly round her, balling her fists up under her armpits. The thunder continued to grumble distantly, though the rain never came.

Men of the Night's Watch were trudging through snows so thick it came up to their thighs. Joffrey led them, his golden hair gleaming under a hood of black fur. Suddenly she was there in front of them, barefoot in the snow, wearing a violet summer dress, and frozen to the spot as the line of men approached. Joffrey pointed at her, and suddenly men were on top of her, pushing her over, and she couldn't even scream. Sansa awoke, trying to gasp, but couldn't. A large hand was clamped over her mouth.


	11. Chapter 11

The bandaged hand covered most of her cheek as well as her mouth and chin. Sansa grabbed it. The Hound was kneeling over her, holding a finger to his lips, and then pointing in mid-air beyond her, above the dell in which they'd made their camp. She breathed in slowly through her nose, trying to calm herself, and listened. Very faintly, with her heart thudding wildly from her dream-panic, she could hear voices, several. Men's voices.

Straining harder, she thought she could hear the dull clump of horses' hooves, and laughter. He lifted his eyes from hers and stared at a patch of leaves next to them both, his body utterly tense and alert, his free hand moving towards his sword, which glinted on the ground beside them. Sansa tried not to breathe. As the sounds got closer, she slowly removed his hand from her mouth but clutched it tightly, hovering just over her face, exhaling through her mouth as noiselessly as possible. He looked back at her and she slid her eyes towards the horses, who were lying down, still sleeping, behind some trees. He followed her look and closed his eyes for a moment, understanding. They mustn't wake up.

Their camp was some distance from the scrubby path they'd left the night before. The voices and sounds of the horses got louder, enough for them to hear one animal harrumph. Sorrell twitched her tail. Raucous laughter and shouting could be heard, indistinct words. It finally began to fade. Sansa took a deep, long breath, her ribs pressing against her dress. The Hound looked down at the hand she was holding. She was gripping him right where she'd wounded him. And his thumb was closed gently around her fingers. She released it quickly. He flexed his fingers slightly and sat back, looking at her, and still listening carefully

'Who do you think they were?' she asked, very quietly.

He shook his head, and spoke almost under his breath. 'No loyal band, by the sounds of things. Too carefree. But whether they were Lannisters or your brother's lot, or a whole other load of bannermen in between, who's to say.'

'How many, do you think?' Sansa put her fingers in her eyes, blinking herself properly awake.

'Maybe ten.'

She wondered what would have happened if the men had stumbled upon them. Could he have protected her, and himself? He _was_ wounded, however much he tried to ignore it.

He seemed to read her thoughts. 'Five I could take. Ten's asking a bit much, even for me.' He got up carefully, with a rueful grin, and turned to go, but stopped, and turned back. He put his good hand down towards her. 'I'm sorry about - waking you like that'.

'I was dreaming,' said Sansa, in a small, slightly broken voice.

'I know,' he replied, gently. 'You're always having bad dreams.' She took his hand, and he pulled her up, as if she was as light as a cloak, and quickly dropped her hand.

They saw no one else that day. They passed through woods of small, crook-backed trees, and paths that were lined with foxgloves and hawthorn bushes. They rode onto open fields and the Hound swung off his horse and strode away with his bow and arrow, certain he'd seen quail. He came back with two limp necks hooked over his fingers to find Sansa pulling up mint by the stalks. She had chewed them all afternoon, and fed them to Sorrel. He told her that they were mad, the pair of them.

That evening, under a half-lidded moon bearded with wisps of cloud, the Hound clapped his hands and rubbed them together.

'Right then,' he grinned. 'Let's see you make this fire.'

Sansa had always loved to learn – she'd easily been Septa Mordane's favourite when she was younger, much to Arya's chagrin, and she'd watched his fire-making carefully. She was determined to prove herself. She collected all the tools that she needed as he made a show of seating himself comfortably, and then stood over him, putting her palm out. He looked at her questioningly.

'I need my dagger.' He sat back and folded his arms, squinting up at her, a half-smile on his face. She sighed. 'Look, I'm really sorry that I – attacked you. Truly. I promise I won't do it again.'

'A promise is a solemn thing.' He feigned a sombre look. 'You can't go back on it'.

Sansa spoke as if she was reciting a list of sigils. '_Please can I have my dagger_.'

With one arm still folded, the Hound whipped out Shae's dagger from his scabbard underneath his elbow as if conjuring it from the air.

'Thank you', she said very deliberately, and with a glimmer of haughtiness. She sat back down and began to shave off the top of her whittling stick.

Everything was going well until the final, crucial moment. Sansa simply could not get any sparks to come. She could now see why he would work himself up so much. It was infuriating. She'd spent fifteen minutes twisting frantically away, and there was no sign. And all the while he'd been watching her, then sighing over-heavily, and finally pretending to go to sleep.

'Crone's feet!' She muttered it more loudly than she'd meant to.

The Hound laughed, then, and got up. 'I'll have to teach you some better oaths, and all.'

He came over to her, and knelt down opposite her. 'The angle's not quite right.' He pointed to the hollow on the base wood. He gestured to her to put the stick in place again, and then tilted it slightly further away from her body. 'OK, now,' he nodded. Sansa began to whittle, and whittle. Nothing came. Her cheeks grew hotter. 'Someone's losing her patience.'

'_You_ never have any,' she shot back, frustrated.

He exhaled a small laugh, and suddenly cupped his hands over hers, completely enclosing them. 'Just go a bit slower.' He started her off again.

The air suddenly seemed weighted. They were both looking at their hands, and the stick, and the kindling. A spark finally came, and Sansa gave a darting little in-breath, and almost stopped. He kept her hands moving until a few more orange flecks flew, and then quickly removed his palms as she moved the kindling and blew on it.

Finally, tiny plumes of smoke and flame began to flare, and she carefully added small twigs, and then larger sticks onto it. The fire took. Sansa sat back on her knees, her face lit up by the small flames, beaming. She tilted her eyes up to the Hound, who had moved back as the fire grew; she caught a look on his face that was something like benevolent pride, before he masked it with one of his wry grins. 'Your first fire.'

They cooked the two quails. Sansa swore that they tasted all the better for having crackled on top of _her_ fire. She was ravenous, and found herself carefully inspecting the bird, tearing it apart to find all last scraps of the dark, fleshy meat. Her fingers were covered in grease and she began licking the tips, one by one. The Hound was picking at his teeth with a fine bone and eyeing her with amusement

She frowned, and wiped her hands on her skirts. '_Please_ don't laugh at me.' He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, as if to say he was doing no such thing. He was always laughing at her. She swore that he enjoyed seeing her out here, living like a wildling. 'Do you – do you think we might stop at an inn sometime… soon?'

He took the bone out his mouth and used his little fingernail instead. 'Getting tired of the woods, are we?'

'You can't expect me to _like_ it out here. It's just – don't you want to have _real_ food, and a _proper_ bed?' she said, making sure that she didn't just complain about her own discomfort.

'I bet your brother's army are thinking just the same, and they've been on the road for a lot longer than you.'

Sansa threw her bones into the fire. 'They have _tents_. And _cooks_.'

The Hound grinned sardonically and took his finger out of his mouth. 'We're still in the south. It's not just you that I'm worried about being recognised. There are a few people who'd be happy to sling a hood over me and get me back to King's Landing for a ransom. We're both prizes, though I'll not deny that you're the prettier one. Once we get past the Twins, I promise you an inn.'

Sansa could see that he was talking some sense, as much as she hated to hear it. 'What will you do – after Winterfell?'

The Hound gazed into the fire and picked up his wineskin. 'Maybe I'll take a look at that Wall. Maybe I'll go over it. Or maybe I'll board a ship and head somewhere a lot, lot warmer, with vineyards and spices and maidens wearing not very much.' Sansa tried not to blush. He gulped some wine. 'I'll follow my nose'. He stretched and gave a big, bearish groan, getting up. He went to the horses, fetched the blankets and threw one at her unceremoniously. 'Goodnight'.

In the morning, as they got their horses up and watered, the Hound coughed behind Sansa to get her attention. She turned around to find him holding her dagger on his palm out to her. 'Reckon you've earned this back.'

She looked at his palm, and up at him, gratefully. He trusted her. She moved to take it from him, and he whipped his hand back, fixing her with a teasingly searching look. She sighed, holding her palm out, her head to her side. Everything was such a game to him. He placed it carefully in her hand. 'Thank you, ser,' she said, delicately.

'Look.' He was suddenly brusque, the game over. 'Stop with the 'sers'. You know I hate it'

She dropped her shoulders as if she was being ticked off by Septa Mordane. 'I know you didn't want to be a knight, but - what else am I supposed to call you? I'm not calling you 'Hound'.'

He shrugged. 'Well, that's my name. There's no shame in it.'

'There _is_. _He_ called you that, and worse. How can you like that name? It – it degrades you.'

He raised his eyebrows, but seemed almost touched. He leant towards her, assuming a fearsome look. 'It puts the fear of the Gods in people.'

Sansa hugged her arms to her chest, unimpressed, and her voice earnest. 'You're not a dog, you're a man. With a _name_.'

He sighed raggedly, scratching his forehead. 'Sandor, then'.

Sansa sat back, satisfied. 'Thank you.' She swore that she saw the faintest hint of a blush under his glowering expression.

Sansa handed him Sorrel's reins and went to her bundle, pulling out the strap that Shae had given her. She sat down on the nearest rock and pulled her skirts up to just below the knee, placing the dagger on the ground by her foot. She wound the strap around her ankle as Shae had done, with the little sheath for the dagger on her outer ankle, and then picked up the blade and slid it into place. She looked up with a grin, and caught him, just for a fleeting moment, looking fixedly at her lower leg.

She hadn't been thinking. Her pale calf, with fine golden hairs, probably the brightest thing for miles around, and him, staring at it. In a second, she had swiftly thrown her skirts back down to her bootstraps, and he'd lost that look, and was shifting Stranger's saddle, unnecessarily. But she didn't forget it.


	12. Chapter 12

They began to fall into a routine. She would see to brushing the horses down, gather berries and firewood, and make the fires. He would disappear and come back with birds, or a hare, and scout ahead at crossings. They stopped at rivers, or sometimes something not much more than a trickle, to fill their waterskins and roughly wash, though Sansa would just splash her face and neck. She smelt like a farmgirl. Like a farm _animal_. And they called each other, just occasionally, and only if necessary, by name. He was right: 'the Hound' did instil fear in people, including her. Thinking of him as Sandor erased what little trepidation she had left of him, and his sparing use of her name felt like he didn't just see her as a flighty, hopeless girl.

As they trotted slowly through a thick wood, picking their way over tree roots as coiled as serpents, Sandor suddenly pulled Stranger up. There were three figures sitting up ahead, though there were no flags or horses to be seen. They looked unarmed. He moved on towards them, Sansa following. The three leapt up as they approached, looking panicked.

There was a man, perhaps fifty or so, a woman who might have been his daughter, and a young girl of about six, who the woman clutched to her. Their clothes were dull-coloured and patched, and all looked desperately thin, pinched and terrified.

'Good – good day to you both,' ventured the man weakly.

The woman pulled the girl aside to let them pass, and they bowed their heads. Sandor didn't reply, scowling down at them and leading Stranger past. As Sansa rode slowly alongside the trio, she saw the little girl raise her eyes up to look at her from underneath her ragged fringe. Her eyes were tired and hollow, but inquisitive.

Sansa tugged on Sorrel's reins and looked down at them. 'Where are you going?'

The man took a step forward. 'Just looking for somewhere safe and quiet my lady, to find work and bring up this little one.'

The woman put her hand on the girl's tangled curls. Sandor had stopped Stranger a few paces on and had turned him so that they were sidelong on the path, looking back towards them.

'And where have you come from?' Sansa asked, kindly.

The woman raised her head to look at Sansa. There was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes, before she quickly glanced down again. 'King's – '

Sandor had brought Stranger back towards the group, his face impassive. The man looked up as he approached, and Sansa could see him take in his armour and then the burnt side of his face. He looked suddenly startled, and nudged the woman to stop.

'- Landing.' She glared at him, surprised, too late.

'How've you got up here so quickly without horses, then?' growled Sandor. The man looked at him, quite fear-stricken, and bowed his head silently.

'You may speak freely,' said Sansa gently.

He looked hesitantly at Sandor. 'We – had a cart to take us much of the way, ser, but it was attacked by brigands, and we were lucky to get away.'

'Did you leave on the night of the battle?' asked Sansa.

'Ay, my lady. The Old Gate was opened and some escaped, though many were hunted down by the City Watch. We – we hid under a moving cart.'

'Do you know what happened?' He looked up at her, puzzled. 'Who won?'

The man shook his head blankly. It didn't seem to matter to him. 'No, my lady.'

Sandor wheeled Stranger round to Sansa, glaring at her impatiently. She looked back at him resolutely and then back to the deserters. 'Are you hungry?'

The little girl raised her head then, for the first time, her eyes round and hopeful. The man glanced nervously at Sandor. 'Don't trouble yourselves, we'll be right.'

Sansa swung off Sorrel and walked over to Sandor. She loosened the dead hare that was hanging limply by its neck at the back of Stranger's saddle, and brought it back to the trio, holding it out to the woman, feeling Sandor's eyes burning into her back. 'Have this for today, at least'.

The woman took it from her, looking at Sansa gratefully. 'All our thanks, my lady.'

Sansa smiled at them, and mounted her mare again. As Sansa went to move off, the woman stepped up to her and put her hand on Sorrel's neck. 'My lady – ' Sansa stopped and looked down at her.

The woman spoke very quietly, eyeing her keenly, as if to say that she could answer her freely, and safely. 'Are you quite well, my lady?'

Sansa understood, and looked at Sandor, then back at her, her eyes earnest. 'Yes. I am well. Thank you.'

The woman removed her hand from Sorrel, nodding her understanding. 'Gods go with you, then.'

Sansa looked back at the deserters as she and Sandor left them. The trio were standing in a line, motionless, watching them disappear. She spurred Sorrel on to ride abreast of Sandor, who was staring fixedly ahead, shaking his head slightly. 'Do you they'll be alright out here?'

He was rigid. 'Ay, you'll have given them all of an extra day.'

'They were _hungry.'_

'And now_ you'll_ be hungry.' He still didn't look at her. She was silent. 'You'd better feel like hunting today.' She looked across at him, not understanding. He glanced at her impassively, spurring Stranger on. 'I'm not spending my time catching game only for you to give our dinner away to the first beggars you see'.

Sansa tried to keep up. 'They were from King's Landing. They're your people.'

'Not _my_ people.' He began to outride her. 'Nor yours'.


	13. Chapter 13

Sometime later, as they rode abreast of a sloping, lumpen field, Sandor stopped suddenly, pointing to the brow of the hill. 'There's your quarry.'

Sansa squinted up into the sun's glare, following his hand. She could see rabbits scattered about, still or lolloping lazily between mounds of scrubby grass. Sandor slid off Stranger and took Sorrel's reins, waiting for Sansa to dismount.

'Rabbits?' She looked at them despondently. She'd always loved watching rabbits up on the moors near Winterfell, and rarely ate them.

He repeated it stoically, emphatically. 'Rabbits.'

Sansa had never touched a bow and arrow, and told him so, several times, as she got down. Her brothers had been near-addicted to archery, from Robb down even to Rickon – Father had had a miniature bow made especially for him. And of course Arya would take a shot whenever she could, and would practice when she thought no one was looking out in the weirwood. Sandor pretended not to hear, and handed her his bow.

She tilted it warily, away from her body. 'You know I won't be able to do it.'

Sandor grinned, holding three arrows bunched up in his fist at her. 'You'll make do.' He led her to some ash trees at the bottom corner of the field, and took out the arrows, showing her the small, flat blades. 'Blunts. Good for killing birds, but they'll do for these 'uns too.'

'I really don't think this is going to work.'

He was adamant. 'Call it target practice, then. You've got three chances'. He fitted her an arrow. 'Don't do anything yet. Have a look up there and pick your shot.'

Sansa peered up at the small, hunched silhouettes. There were four rabbits in a group lower down in the field. She brought the bow up and pulled the arrow back. There was so much tension in the hide string that her arm shook, and the arrow trembled uncontrollably. She lowered the bow, her cheeks reddening. 'I'm not strong enough.'

'Yes, you are,.' He spoke rather gently. 'Don't give up before you've started. Go on'.

She pulled the bow up again, quickly, and drew the arrow back, so that the fletchling was touching her cheek. With an eye closed, squinting at the trio of rabbits, she loosed an arrow.

It landed some pace short of them, collapsing into the grass. A flock of pigeons, rock-grey with pink flashes, broke into the sky. The rabbits didn't even notice. Sansa's face fell. Sandor tried not to grin, and fitted her another arrow. She pulled it up, and released it, too quickly. It soared further this time, but metres wide of any rabbits. The animals loped slightly away from where it had fallen, untroubled.

Sandor fitted her final arrow. She didn't look at him, furious and embarrassed. He was making a fool of her.

'I can't do it.' Her throat felt as taut as the bowstring.

'Take your time.' He moved slightly behind her and spoke in a low, casual voice. 'Get your prey in sight first. Try one of them right at the top of the hill. They're not moving.' Sansa brought her arrow up, the nock at her cheekbone. 'Bring your arm up so that it's level with your arrow.' He put his hand under the tip of her elbow and gently tilted it.

Sansa took a breath in. With him holding her there, she was able to keep the bowstring taut without shaking, and let it fly. It arced over the field and fell over the line of the horizon, missing her rabbit. She exhaled tightly and lowered her bow. 'Happy now?'

'It was a good first try.' He took the bow off her and moved past her into the field, and then turned, walking backwards. 'Good for those rabbits anyway.' He grinned and turned back to collect the arrows.

Sansa kicked the smooth roots of the ash trees with her boot, hard enough to numb her toes. She was a perfectionist. She hated being made to look stupid. She'd mastered the fire well enough, but she couldn't turn into a head archer in a heartbeat. He was just punishing her again, for doing an act of kindness he disapproved of. He had to humiliate her; he just couldn't help himself.

'Sansa!'

She turned back round to the field to see him, a big silhouette against the sun, which glinted off his armour. He was tramping back down the field towards her, holding two arrows in one hand, and a limp rabbit in the other. He held it up to her. It must have been caught by that third arrow, unseen by them over the brow of the hill. She grinned.


	14. Chapter 14

By the light of the fire that Sansa made that night, Sandor taught her how to skin it. She didn't argue this time. She was determined to rise to each challenge he gave her, just to wipe those cursed sly grins off his face. Using Shae's dagger, he instructed her to slice the fur up the back of both legs. She pulled the first bit of hide away, towards the rabbit's little tufted tail. She gritted her teeth as she cut through the tailbone, which crunched alarmingly. She was surprised at how easily the hide pulled off over the animal's middle, and how little blood there was. Bile started to rise in her throat as she worked fingers under the skin of the front legs, turning it inside out, revealing the stretched, mottled flesh. It looked a little like Sandor's cheek, she thought secretly, wickedly.

She couldn't bring herself to sever the head. 'You do it.' She foisted the dagger on him.

He was about to refuse, when something made him realise why she was insisting, and he took the knife from her and swiftly chopped it off. 'I'll do the rest. Go and get some water.'

They sat, gnawing at her rabbit over the fire. Sansa was eating a leg, picking at the meat

'How does it taste?' he asked.

'It needs apricots. And sauce. And vegetables. And salt.'

He smiled dryly at her. 'I mean, how does it taste, being your first game?'

She fixed her teeth around a bone. 'Good.'

'That was some beginner's luck,' he said, throwing a sinew into the fire and eyeing her teasingly.

'It was no such thing,' she shot back, quick as a flash. 'I knew there were rabbits over the hill. It's a sixth sense I have. A special Stark thing. You couldn't possibly understand.' He breathed a laugh. 'You've probably been using a bow and arrow since you were _five_.'

'Ay.' He smugly tipped his head down to his injured shoulder. 'But I have been using my other arm.'

Sansa glared at him, gleefully furious. 'You're just showing off.'

'And you're turning into a proper little she-wolf.'

Sansa looked at him as impassively as she could, shrugging. She couldn't help feeling proud, and secretly pleased. He meant it as an accolade, and though a week ago she would have done anything but, she took it as one.

As they finished, Sandor threw something over the fire at her. She flinched slightly at the thing that had fallen by her feet, then picked it up. He nodded at it. 'That's for luck.' It was the rabbit's tail, cleaned of blood: a soft, white ball like a dandelion weed.

She flung it back. 'You have it.' It landed in his lap. He looked at it, and at her. 'I'm going to get back home. Luck is going to have nothing to do with it. Have it as a present.' She looked down at her fingers, which were greasy with rabbit meat. 'For – for after Winterfell.'

He knew what she meant. 'Not sure I want it for then, either.'

She tried to speak delicately, picturing Gregor towering over him at the tourney. 'He's a lot bigger than you.'

'He's a lot bigger than everyone. But he's just one man, and one man can be killed.'

'He's probably one of the hardest men to kill, though, isn't he?' she asked, as lightly as she could.

'Ay, well, there have been a lot of strange deaths in my family. I'll make sure this one isn't the most surprising.'

'What do you mean?'

There was a long pause. 'My…' he paused again, and seemed to be deciding whether to continue or not. He breathed in. 'I had a sister, once.' He swallowed. 'She died.' He had become incredibly still.

Sansa hardly dared move. 'What happened?'

He seemed to become heavy, so heavy that his words slowed, and each one was uttered as if it were a large stone being lowered to the ground. 'It's said she - drowned.'

'But you think… otherwise?

Sandor looked deeply into the fire. 'I know so, though I can't prove it. She was always careful near the water. There was a big lake nearby. She didn't swim in it, though my brother said that she must have done, this time.

The flames crackled. She looked at him gently, desperate to prompt him further. 'You said – deaths. Was there more than one?'

Sparks were in his eyes, like flints taking. He was grinding his teeth slightly. 'We had servants who would – well, one day they'd be there, the next not, and no one would speak of it. I know one kitchenmaid who might've, had her tongue not been bitten out.' She flinched, then. 'And my father.

Sansa glanced at him, not believing that there could be more. He looked at her as he spoke, bitterness creeping into his voice. 'Well, hunting is treacherous, it seems, for kings and bannermen alike, even when you've weapons, and dogs and squires at your heels.'

Sansa was horrified. She drew her knees up to her chin, trying to digest his words.

'Let's not speak of it,' Sandor said, seeing how troubled she was. He picked up the rabbit's tail and jiggled it at her. 'Maybe I'll take it, just in case.'

She smiled then. 'You'll be drowning in lucky charms soon enough.' He looked at her quizzically and she raised her eyebrows, sitting back casually. 'From all the rabbits I'm going to shoot for us.

He barked a sudden laugh and looked at her. His gaze suddenly grew more intense; he seemed to be peering at her face.

She fidgeted under it. 'What?'

He leaned back, with a half-smile. 'You're getting freckles.'

She felt herself blush and looked at the fire. 'I'm – not supposed to stay in the sun too long'

They were silent for a while. Sansa was trying to take in what he'd told her. Being brought up in the shadow of such a brother. She eyed him sidelong, looking at the long clumps of hair that hung down from the burnt side of his head. He'd been disfigured himself so horribly, and then to lose a sister, and a father. He had been left with no one but the monster. She wondered if he'd had any happiness in his life at all, any kindness or love shown towards him.

Sandor caught her scrutinising him. 'What is it?'

She came out with it. 'Were you ever married?'

Sandor looked panic-stricken at the question, like one of the birds caught in his hands just before he'd break its throat. 'Gods, girl, do you have to?'

'I just … wondered.' Sansa was secretly gleeful that he was so embarrassed. 'You don't have to answer.'

Sandor scratched his neck. 'Didn't have much time for that, once I was at Casterly Rock. And anyway – ' he looked awkward, and fleetingly self-hating. 'I don't think many of the girls were too keen on looking at this'. He gestured vaguely towards the right side of his face.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Why did he think of it as such a burden? It held him back. 'Everyone has – something – ' she struggled to articulate what she meant, desperate not to offend him. He narrowed his eyes at her, a challenge. 'I mean, Tyrion Lannister is – a dwarf, and Ser Illyn – has no tongue, and Ser Varys – '

'I think you'd best stop talking,' he said, drinking some of his wine, though she could see that he was hurt.

'No, I mean – ' she took a deep breath, plucking a blade of grass from between her feet. 'My brother, Bran, he fell from a tower and now he can't use his legs. But he's strong, and he'll grow to be a fine man, and be a maester, or a bannerman for Robb. I just mean – you're not the only one. We – everyone has something, an obstacle. It – it doesn't matter.'

'Ay, and what's yours then?' She looked up at him, unsure of what to say. 'Answer me that.' He shook his head, irritated. 'You're so damned perfect.'

It seemed an angry confusion of insult and high compliment. She flushed, her skin prickling. He looked at her for just a moment too long, before turning his face away. Sansa tightened her jaw. 'My obstacle is that I'm a highborn woman. Not a man.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Ay, that's a hardship, having your hair brushed and your bath drawn and learning to play the fucking harp'.

'You're wrong.' She looked at him defiantly. 'I exist for one purpose. To be married off, to join houses, have sons. Nothing more.' She picked more blades of grass furiously.

There was a long pause, and Sandor sighed heavily. 'Ay. Well, maybe you're right. We're all born into this world with something to fight against.' He tipped his wineskin over, and when nothing dripped out, sighed again.

That night was colder than ever. The days might still have a late summer glow, but the nights warned of the approaching winter. Sansa lay looking up at the stars, which seemed to spin and fight for her attention between the dark branches, and watched her cold breath exhale in clouds before vanishing into nothing. The fire gave its last sighs, diminishing to a dull, intermittent glow, as if it was breathing. It was so unnervingly quiet that she couldn't sleep.

He'd called her perfect. He seemed furious about it, but he'd called her perfect. She could not understand what he felt about her. Whether he thought she was a frivolous girl, or a haughty highborn, or – something else. She knew he'd been proud of her these last few days, making fires, using the bow and arrow, skinning rabbits. He'd grown – at least for the most part – more benevolent. And just occasionally, she'd caught him giving her a look that stilled her.

He could still turn on her, but she could see that there was a gentler side to him, underneath it all, and a teasing humour that wasn't as cruel as all that. He'd hardened, in the face of the horrors he'd suffered at home. She could understand it. He hated himself, and his burnt face, so much, but she'd meant what she said. She saw the potential in him to be better, and braver, given the chance. His face shouldn't stop him, and she was so used to it now that she hardly noticed it. As he talked about his family, he'd seemed to break, and soften just a little more.

Maybe he was the sort of knight you found in real life – not in the songs, where the men were all fey and noble, and the ladies simpering waifs. She stifled a giggle as she imagined a song being written about them: a burnt, angry bear of a man and a girl with a filthy face and rabbit's bones in her teeth.

Suddenly there was a low rumble and her heart jumped in her chest. For a moment she thought it might be a wolf. Then there was a slower, juddering sound, like an iron chain dragged on gravel, and she realised that it was him, snoring. She went to sleep, shivering, but with a grin on her face.


	15. Chapter 15

Sandor had left her with the horses, and taken off with his bow and arrow. There was a smallholding some way off in a small valley, little black coils of smoke trailing up from one corner of the roof. Sansa wasn't sure how much more charred meat, feathers or patches of fur still stuck on it, she could take. Or boiled mushrooms, or leaves that she hoped were sage, or borage, and then ate anyway. A hot bath seemed like something she'd only ever dreamt about. She was beginning to feel like they were moving through a half-place, ancient, before humans. That they were the first people to ever see these fields, or these woods with canopies like clasped, worrying hands. Or perhaps it was a place _after_ humans – after everyone had killed each other, and that they were the only ones left.

That night, Sansa sat with a plump little grouse on her lap, as heavy as a sack of grain, and picked the feathers out, one by one, placing them in a neat pile on the ground. She found herself actually half-enjoying it, once she'd gotten over the squeamishness of the little scrape of feather-tip against flesh. A chunk of bread landed on the ground beside her.

She looked up. 'Where did you get that?'

Sandor was already eating his portion. 'That farm.'

She couldn't believe it. He'd refused to let them go there and petition for shelter or food, saying they were still too close to the city. 'You went there _without _me?' He flung a bit of cheese at her. 'Did you buy it?' He winked at her. She sighed. 'You stole from them.'

He looked half-ashamed, just for an instant, and then assumed his usual mock-bravado, speaking through a mouthful of food. 'I'll eat it all if you don't want it.'

She quickly picked up the bread and cheese - a white crust like cottonweed, and thin blue lines veined through it – dusted the soil off it, and started eating. She knew that he was grinning at her.

'I think it's time I had my favour.'

It was after they'd eaten and she'd been braiding her hair, trying to neaten it up at the sides. She looked up at him, startled.

He held up his scarred hand at her. He'd removed the bandage now, and the wound she'd given him was healing into a fine, dark red crescent. 'This still hurts, you know.'

'I'm sorry', she said, wondering what he could want. The mood was darker again. Perhaps it was having run out of wine. She felt suddenly apprehensive.

'Don't you want to know, then?' His voice was unreadable.

She swallowed quietly. 'What is it?'

He looked at her intently. 'I want a song.'

Sansa realised that she'd been holding her breath. She exhaled slowly, trying not to let him see her relief, and looked at him, feeling suddenly shy. 'What song?'

'I don't know. Anything you like. Not too many bloody knights and fair maidens.' He tucked his hands into his elbows, looking at her expectantly, and not smiling, though the corners of his eyes were crumpled. She quickly put the thought of a song about the two of them out of her mind.

She was more nervous than she would have imagined. It was unspoken and hanging in the air that when he'd asked her for a song before, she was pushed up against a wall and he was steaming drunk. This was different. She didn't mind. She _would_ sing for him. Sansa got into a kneeling position, facing him, and began. She sang 'The Swan', a ballad about a girl turned into a swan by a jealous boy and then shot by her lover. She looked everywhere but at him, feeling slightly ridiculous at first, with the shadows and silence hanging thickly around them, but she warmed into it. He kept his eyes fixed on her and his arms folded, and remained very still. Her voice trailed off on the last refrain of 'and he drowned in the lake for his darling' as she finally caught his eye. His jaw was hanging slightly open and he was looking at her with something akin to wonder - or bafflement.

Maybe he thought it was stupid. A stupid song. Sansa looked down, blushing. 'It's – a bit silly. Old Nan, our nurse, used to sing it to me. She likes the gloomy ones.' She dared to look back up.

He leaned forward slightly. 'I think I like the gloomy ones too, then.

She gave him a squashed, shy grin, then brightened, sitting back on her heels. 'Now you have to sing something.'

'Ha!' Sandor gave a hearty, dark laugh, the tension broken in an instant. 'I'd sooner cut my own throat.'

'Well, you've got to do something, it's only fair.'

'_You_, young lady, stabbed me through my sword hand with a whore's dagger, so I definitely do not owe you a song. And the only songs I know are not fit for a highborn lady's ears, believe me. Anyway, all the birds will abandon these woods forever in protest if I start crowing.' His shoulders shook at his own joke.

'Well, what else can you do?' she said, not intending to let it go.

He leaned towards her, his eyes keen. 'I was learning how to kill a man in one swordstroke when you were singing songs and embroidering pillows. That's what I do best.'

'Well, you'll have to teach me, then.'

He guffawed. 'Sansa, you were not meant to fight.'

'I was not _meant_ to live in the woods plucking the feathers out of birds, but here I am.' She gave him her best mock-frown.

He laughed again. 'Tomorrow then', he said, with finality. 'Go to sleep.'

The next morning, she felt a boot thudding against the sole of one of hers. She rolled over, groaning, and pulling the cloak over her face.

Sandor kicked her again. 'Come on, sleeping beauty, do you want to get home or become a child of the forest?'

Sansa kept the cloak over her head. Was it her, or was he getting bolder? She got up slowly, stretching and rubbing each thumb against her knuckles to massage them out of stiffness, glancing at him from under her lashes as he crashed about preparing the horses and shrugging on his armour. She drank some water from a skin and went to mount Sorrel.

Sandor put a hand on the mare's reins. 'Where do you think you're going?' She looked at him sleepily, puzzled. 'You've forgotten your first fighting lesson.'


	16. Chapter 16

Sandor had two swords: his longsword that he kept slung on his back, and a short, single-edged sword scabbarded at his waist.

Sansa eyed the hand and a half-long blade, and gave him a fierce look. 'You're a little bit bigger than me.'

He grinned and handed her the shorter one. 'Ay, I'm still wounded though.'

She eyed him seriously. 'Does it hurt?'

He gave her a craggy smile. 'I've had worse.' The sword was still far heavier than she expected, and she sighed and dropped her shoulders at him. 'Your sister would have been up for it,' he said.

'Of course she would have. She is basically a _boy_.'

'She had lessons, you know.'

Sansa looked up at him, sharply. 'She wasn't allowed.'

He shook his head. 'She had some Braavosi teaching her. I could hear him drawling at her from the corridors, shouting at her to be a cat or a bird or something.

'She had a _dancing_ master that she went to every day, but she – ' Sansa stopped, the realisation quickly coming. 'Oh, _Ayra._' She suddenly grew mournful.

Sandor looked down at her with gruff kindness. 'She'll be right.'

'Do you know that she's alive?' Sansa tilted her head up at him, tears forming.

'I don't. But I know that they never found her. And she's a scrapper, isn't she?'

Sansa gulped, and nodded, and then looked more resolutely at the sword she was holding. 'It's really too heavy. I can't do much with it.'

'All you need to know is this. If a man's wearing armour, go for the gaps.' He gestured on himself. 'The neck, underneath the arm, stomach, top of the thigh.'

She looked at the sword, remembering her father's great Valerian steel, Ice, always hanging by his leg, and with effort lifted the blade up to Sandor's neck. He flinched slightly. 'Here,' she repeated.

'Careful,' he said, lightly, moving his chin just a little away from the sword, but otherwise remaining utterly still.

She gave a glimmer of a smile, and turned the blade ever so slightly, so that it gave a brief flash in the early morning sun. The tip just touched the skin of his neck beneath his beard, on the unburnt side of his face. She could kill him right now, if she wanted to. He eyed her, with a guarded daring, as if he was almost inviting her to press the blade in. Her arm started to tremble just a little with the weight of it.

'Here,' Sansa moved it to underneath his arm, 'here', and directly in front of his stomach, 'and here.' She moved the sword down to his the corner of his inner thigh, and brought up her other hand to keep the sword still. 'It is _very_ heavy,' she said, with the briefest hint of a grin.

Sandor looked at her, still trying to work her out. They seemed to be caught between something very funny and very dangerous. He moved to the side suddenly, deftly grabbing the sword off her as if it were simply a feasting knife, and slotted it into his scabbard, shaking his head in a small movement. A mixture of wonder at her audacity, and admonishment.

Sansa bit away her grin. 'What about if I've just got my dagger? That's probably more likely, after all.'

'Well, the first thing is not to go for the hand', Sandor sardonically waved his wound at her. He was never going to let her forget it. She sighed at him and he looked at her more pensively. 'Best go straight for the throat if you can. You're tall enough. Or the eyes, I reckon.' He put his hand out, gesturing for her dagger.

She took it from the ankle strap and went to give it to him. Instead, he clasped her fingers shut around the handle with his own hand, then brought it, along with her arm, up to his throat. He kept it there, looking at her challengingly, his hand around hers.

There was a pause. Sansa didn't breathe. Swiftly, Sandor drew her hand in the air just in front of his neck and held her gaze, more piercingly than he ever had before. Then he suddenly dropped her hand and staggered back, clutching his hand to his throat in mock-agony, the fingers of his other hand pretending to be the blood spattering out, and crashed to the ground, making hideously guttural choking noises.

Sansa breathed out sharply, relieved, trying not to laugh. 'Don't.' He lay still in the grass. She went up to him and stood over his motionless body, her hands on her hips. His arms were splayed outwards and his eyes shut. 'That's horrible.'

He suddenly opened his eyes and looked up at her. 'You'd better not say that to the first man you're trying to kill. It'll be much less impressive if you do.'

She grinned at him, and held her hand out.

He looked at it, and back up at her, then sat up and took it with his good hand. He heaved himself up, his weight pulling Sansa forward two quick steps towards him. Just a foot apart from her, he held her hand for a moment longer with an opaque look, before dropping it quickly. 'Let's get going.'

He let her lead today, occasionally letting her know where to turn her mare. The land seemed to be changing slowly as they edged further north – darker, and more green. There was the scent of Jack-by-the-hedge, crushed under the horse's hooves. A big bird, an eagle of some kind, wheeled around in circles above them, an occasional cry like the release of an arrow. She could feel his eyes on her, and thought over and over about their sword-game. The blade at his thigh. She couldn't quite believe that she had dared. His hands clasped around hers on the dagger haft, and his look.

As the sun sat high in a flawless indigo sky, their path ran abreast of a wide river, grey-gold and glittering in the sun. They stopped to fill their skins and let the horses drink at a shallow bend in the river, where the lively water slowed a little. Sansa knelt down on the bank, crushing wildflowers and nettles, and leant down to splash her face, Sorrel snorting through her nose behind her and munching the grass. The water was sharp, and deliciously refreshing. She'd been feeling groggy all morning, with a thick throat, and this cleared her head a little. As she went to scoop up more water, she saw a shadow, the length of her forearm, weave past. And then another.

She sat back on her heels and turned round to Sandor. 'There are fish in here.' He looked over from where he stood further down the bank with Stranger. 'Big ones.'

He tied Stranger's reins to a slim birch tree and walked over to her, peering into the river. Three more large fish lazily drifted past, turning a little in the light. 'Trout,' he said, and began shrugging off his armour.

He removed it, piece by piece, leaving it in a pile in the grass, followed by his mail, which came off in a tangle, and sat heavily down. 'Coming in?' He unselfconsciously tugged off his boots.

She couldn't tell if he was joking or not. 'To do what?'

'To catch one.' He stood up, wearing just his breeches and shirt, and rolled the sleeves up. Sansa squinted up at him, astonished, as he stood at the river edge, looking at the rushing water. His feet were bare, and there was dark hair on his pale, thick-calved lower legs and ankles. He sat down at the edge, before using a hand to lever himself in.

The water went up to his shins, and then his knees, soaking the lower legs of his breeches, but he didn't seem to care. He waded out into the middle, and turned around to her. 'It's not that cold, you know.

'I can't.' He frowned at her, mock-impatiently. 'I've only got - this dress.'

He looked at her keenly for a second, then grinned and shrugged. 'Suit yourself.' He bent over, staring into the water.

Without his armour on – she almost never saw him without it, he'd even slept in it - he seemed lighter of heart, and much less ferocious. And he didn't seem to care one bit about being in the water, and in front of her in a state of relative undress. She felt bold. She stood up, and began to undo the fastenings at the back of her dress.


	17. Chapter 17

By the time Sandor leant up again, Sansa was wriggling out of her woollen skirts, leaving her standing in her white linen smock, which reached just below her knees. Her dagger belt was wound on her leg just above her boots. He saw her, and seemed to freeze, looking utterly startled. She stepped out of the circle of her dress as it sagged to the ground, blushing unimaginably, but doing her very best to appear nonchalant. She sat down with her back to him to undo her boots and pull off her short stockings and dagger belt, her mind racing. She already wished that she could stop and return to being dressed on the bank, but it was too late now. She took a deep breath and swung around to him.

'It had better not be cold,' she said in the most ordinary voice that she could muster. He didn't say anything, but just watched as she swung her legs over the edge of the bank.

The water _was_ cold, but she could manage it. The pools around Winterfell could be so icy that you couldn't swim in it for more than a few, gasping breaths. Robb, Jon and Theon would take it turns to see how long they could last, their torsos almost blue when they finally emerged. She lowered herself into the water, it immediately reaching her knees and darkening the lower material of her smock. She waded through the long, thick stems of white crowfoot over towards Sandor, her arms outstretched as she tried to balance, her toes squelching in the mud.

He was still looking at her slightly agape, then seemed to come to his senses, and brought his finger to his lips. She stopped a few paces away from him, and looked down into the water. She could see nothing but a few long, stringy weeds. He slowly leant down and put his arms in the water, and hung there, motionless. She watched him curiously, and stayed very still. After what seemed a long while, he abruptly righted, holding a trout in his hands, which wriggled frenziedly. He wrestled with it, trying to keep hold of it, before it shot out of his hands and back into the water, whipping away rapidly. Sansa shouted a laugh at the shock and suddenness of it, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

Sandor looked at her in surprise and pleasure, and then pretended to look peevish. 'Your turn, then.'

Still giggling, Sansa leant down and let her arms fall into the water, trying to keep her limbs as still as possible in the sway of the river. Her hair slipped over her shoulders, the ends falling into the water. She was conscious that her smock hung slightly away from her body, and that the skin just below her neck was totally exposed. A leaf shaped like a little rowboat sailed past her arms. She saw a couple of much smaller fish, the size of her little finger, swim past. Her lower back started to ache a little.

Suddenly a dappled brown trout swam past one of her legs, and then another, large and deft, with its thin, rose-coloured horizontal stripe. She held her breath, desperately trying not to move. Part of her wanted to scream very loudly and race out of the water. Then a trout was there between her hands, and she grabbed it and stood up. The fish was slippery, and flapping about frantically. She yelled gleefully, trying to hold it. Sandor moved quickly up to her. The fish slithered from her grasp but he managed to catch it, hold it tight, and stride, splashing dramatically, to the bank, where he threw it down forcefully.

It thrashed about on the grass, tail and head flailing against the ground in panicked throes, almost bouncing itself back to the water. Sandor gave a curious, strangulated yelp and kept flinging it a bit further away from the river, but the fish didn't stop floundering. Finally, he leapt onto the bank, water flying everywhere, grabbed a large stick and bashed it on the head three times until it finally stopped moving. Sansa, still in the middle of the river, was laughing her head off. She couldn't help it. It was the funniest thing that she'd seen in a long, long time.

Sandor looked round at her, dripping wet, as she stood in the middle of the river, in hysterics. 'I'm glad that _you_ find it so amusing,' he said, pretending to be offended, as he flopped down next to the dead trout.

She slowly waded back to the bank against the drag of the river, teetering a little in the mud, and pulled herself up onto the bank, giggling helplessly. She sat down next to him, clutching her sides. 'I'm sorry. It was just – so funny. I've never - held a fish before.' And she burst into fresh peals of laughter.

He grinned at seeing her so unaffectedly joyous and flung his fingers in the air, sending water flying.

Sansa calmed a little, putting her hand to her forehead. 'My head hurts.'

He shook her head at her benignly. 'You great daft thing.' He flicked a drop of river at her.

She gave a big sigh, her laughter finally subsiding, and rubbed her face. 'Do we need to make a fire?'

Sandor looked about him. 'Not in the middle of the day, it'll slow us down.'

'How do we eat it then?'

'Just as it is,' he said, lying down on the bank, his hands behind his head.

Sansa wrinkled her nose, slightly appalled. '_Raw_?'

He closed his eyes, enjoying the sun. 'Ay. Raw.'

She swallowed, looking at the trout. 'You'll eat anything, won't you?'

Sandor snorted. 'When you're out at war, in stinking tents in the woods, and not enough food is cooked for you because there are too many men and not enough coin, you start being imaginative. So yes, I do eat almost anything. Birds, squirrels, snails, nettles, crazy laughing she-wolves…'

Sansa grinned self-consciously at the ground, then took her dagger out of her ankle strap on the ground and handed it to him. He sat up. 'Better show me how it's done, then,' she said, whilst putting her hand to her head again. It really did hurt.

Sandor slit open the belly of the trout and dug his fingers in, poking at the innards until they slithered out, slopping into the grass. He flattened out the fish, chopped off the head, and sawed on the top of the spine until it came free. He swiftly tugged free the spine and peeled it away, most of the fine bones coming with it. He took the flapping fillet to the river and rinsed it, cleaning away the rest of the innards, and slapped it back on the grass. He then cut away at a small piece of flesh, removing the skin, and handed it to Sansa. She took it and eyed it warily, then sat up straight, took a deep breath, and bit into it.

It was stringy, and her stomach turned slightly as the flesh snagged between her teeth. But it was also cold, and meaty, and seemed to taste of the sharp, clear river. She ate it as best she could, watching him saw off himself a larger piece and gnaw at it indelicately. She suddenly wondered what her family would think of her, sitting there in her smock, her bare lower legs glistening with little droplets, next to a man who had been sworn to serve the Lannisters, who they'd last seen in a fearsome dog helm. Well, at least Arya would be impressed with the fish-catching, though perhaps pull a face about the state of her undress. Her mother would be horrified. At that moment, ravenous, her hair as tangled as a wildling's - and with him giving her an occasional sly glance from underneath his falling hair, thinking she wasn't noticing - she really didn't care too much.


	18. Chapter 18

As the day waned, Sandor seemed to be leading them into thicker woods, and they were slowing all the while. The horses weren't happy, snorting through their nostrils as they picked their way over mounds and hollows.

Sansa ducked a low branch. 'Where are we going?'

He pointed upwards. 'Rain's coming.'

Mottled clouds hung overhead in between the gaps in the branches. They didn't look so bad to her, but the air did seem to hum with tension, waiting. It was as if a leather belt was tightening around her forehead.

The rain started plashing, drop by heavy drop, not long afterwards, and the wood lost almost all its light. Spots darkened her cloak and fell on her face, even with the hood. Sorrel grumbled, her ears twitching. In the gloom, Sansa peered ahead to see Sandor dismount.

'There'll be no fires tonight.' He sounded like he almost relished it.

She screwed her face up into the air. 'Maybe it'll stop soon.' The rain seemed to hear her, and begin to lash down more heavily.

They grabbed their blankets and bundles as it became a downpour. Sansa wrapped herself up in her blanket and crouched, sitting, under an overhanging broom bush. Sandor was a little distance off, his hood over his head. She tucked her head into her chest, and realised how lucky they'd been not to have any rain until now. There was nothing to do but sit, and wait for it to be over.

It didn't stop. Sansa was soaked through, the water like cold palms pressing on her arms and legs.

'Fuck this', she heard Sandor mutter, before he got up, throwing his blanket aside. He disappeared into the bushes. Her shelter seemed to be dissolving above her, the rain as heavy as pebbles on her head. The thought of it lasting all night made her utterly despondent. It was all very well for him: his armour at least kept the rain off. She was in nothing but wool, worsted and linen. Her throat scratched. She began shivering uncontrollably, wondering where he'd gone

'We're in luck.' Sandor was suddenly standing over her. She looked up at him miserably. 'Come on'.

She put a hand down, right into a blotchy pool of mud. With her dress plastered to her legs, and clutching her wet blanket to her, she dragged her feet after him, slipping slightly in the leaf-mulch. He crashed through a blackthorn bush, which sprang back in her face. She picked her way through it, tiny thorns snagging on her cloak, to find him holding up some branches for her to pass underneath. She bent under his arm, and straightened out to see an ancient yew tree, its great trunk as wide as a cart, and perfectly hollowed-out, with an arched opening. It looked like a house for a grumkin. She looked up at him gratefully.

He grinned at her, his hair stuck to his face. 'I'll get the horses'.

The hollowed trunk was spacious enough for them both. Sandor threw in their bundles before ducking down and thunking to the ground, groaning, pushing his wet hair away from his face. Sansa was suddenly aware again of how much bigger than her he was: his frame seemed to blot out what little evening light there was. She sat up against the bark and lay her head against it, the rotten wood sweetly pungent-smelling, wiping her muddy hand on the wall. She watched a woodlouse scuttle away from her. She felt dazed. He made a loud, self-conscious sigh, and looked over to her, smiling slightly. She gazed at him opaquely.

'It's just rain,' he said. 'You'll dry.'

'I know,' she said in a small voice.

Sandor frowned at her, seeming uncomfortable that she wasn't so good-humoured as she'd been that afternoon. He rummaged in his saddlebag, pulled out some bread, and offered it to her. She shook her head.

'You always want to eat.'

Sansa swallowed, and winced. Her throat felt spiky, like she'd been eating gorse thorns. 'I'm not hungry.'

'You will be.' He waggled it in front of her face. She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. 'Suit yourself, then,' he muttered gently, and she heard him ripping the bread with his teeth.

Sansa slept fitfully, gnarled yew roots prodding into her back, however much she shifted around. The rain was relentless, sheets of water coursing down outside and puddling into their shelter. Her head throbbed and her throat itched. She peered at Sandor, who'd shoved his legs outwards, and who was snoring peacefully. One boot rested against her calf. He seemed unruffled by the cold, or the rain, or the lack of food. In winter, he'd probably just curl up in the snowdrifts like a cat in a basket. The further away they got from King's Landing, the lighter he seemed. She gave a sudden shiver.

When she next opened her eyes, everything was quiet. The rain had stopped, and there was an earthy smell, like toadstools, in the air. Light the colour of milk-vetch filtered down. She moved her head over to Sandor, who was awake and looking at her, a faintly worried expression on his face. His foot was no longer touching her leg. She opened her mouth to speak, and coughed, her throat scratching.

'Are you alright?' he asked, looking gruffly awkward.

Her head felt as heavy as a boulder. 'I think I have a malady.'

'You were mumbling something.'

She put her hand to her cheek. It was burning. 'I don't remember.'

He thrust a waterskin at her. 'Better drink.' Every swallow she took hurt. She let her head fall against the bark again. Sandor chewed on his thumbnail, frowning at her. 'Do you think you can move?'

He probably hadn't done much nursing, she thought ruefully. 'Ay.'

A flash of shock crossed his face then, and she realised that she'd unthinkingly used one of his most common expressions. 'Come on then,' he said. 'Sorrel will see you right.'

They rode slowly, side by side when the path was wide enough, with her mare seeming aware that she was weaker, and moving with care and quietness. Sandor kept eyeing her with a discomfited concern. Sansa had a raging thirst and had drunk all the water from both of their skins. They rode up on a high ridge, which eventually lay abreast of a stream, far below, masked by densely tangled undergrowth.

Sandor trotted his horse back to her. 'Wait here.' He leant over and took her waterskin. 'I'll fetch more water.' He took Stranger up and down the path, searching for a way down, and then disappeared into the bushes.

Sansa leant down on her saddle and hugged Sorrel, putting her fingers in her mane, angry with herself and trying to remember the last time she'd felt so horrible. She didn't want to be seen as useless all over again, after all the progress she'd made in impressing him. Becoming a wolf-wildling. She realised that she urgently needed to relieve herself, and slid off her mare, tying her to a branch. She staggered off the path and behind a tree and crouched down, closing her eyes.

'Who's this then?' A man's voice, rough-accented, cut through her foggy thoughts like a longsword.


	19. Chapter 19

Sansa abruptly righted herself and thwacked her head on a branch. She brought a hand to her skull and turned round. Three men, looking at her curiously. They were dressed in mismatched mail and dented armour, muted colours. There were no banners and she couldn't tell whom they might be affiliated with, if anyone. Two of them had broadswords and the other leaned on a longbow.

'Who – what do you want?' She hoped that she sounded fearless.

'We want to know who you are and why you're pissing on our path,' said the man in the centre. A southern country accent. Tall, thin and bearded, with a scar across one cheek.

She clenched her jaw, and removed her hand from her head, standing straight and looking him in the eye. 'I'm no one.'

'Ha! I find that hard to believe,' said the arrowman on the right, spitting on the ground on front of him. He had a mouthful of black, broken teeth and sounded like a northerner.

They could be sworn to her brother. If she was lucky, she might be able to get back to her family even sooner. 'Who do you fight for?' she asked.

'No one, same as you,' said the first man. 'No one but ourselves, anyway.' Her heart sank. He narrowed his eyes, chewing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, and looked her up and down. 'What's your business, going through here?'

'Nothing', she blurted, too loudly. 'I'm just – heading to the next village.'

'What village is that then?' asked the third man, a small, stout swordbearer with a strange, bloodshot eye.

Sansa's heart beat wildly. 'I – I don't know it's name. I'm just – looking for my cousin. I've a message for her, from – my mother.'

The second man had wandered over to Sorrel and was stroking her neck idly, and examining the saddlebag. The tall, bearded one took a step closer and leant down, almost benevolently, speaking to her as if she was a small child. 'You're not very convincing.' He scrutinised her with an almost kindly expression, and she flinched under it, lowering her eyes.

'She's very pretty, though,' said the third man from behind him.

'She is.' He seemed to be acting a part in play. Then he straightened up, and took a sudden breath in, and spoke quickly and straightforwardly, as if haggling over the price of an apple. 'Well, the usual punishment for a lady who pisses on our land is to lie with us, all three. Who d'you want first?'

The panic that hit Sansa was almost like a blow to the stomach. 'N- no,' she said, backing away.

'We won't bite,' he said in a sing-song voice, smiling at her. She turned to run. 'Not unless you want us to.'

Sansa bolted; he grabbed her elbow, swift as lightning, and held it firmly. She wriggled madly - the trout flailing on the bank - and as he tried to grab her round the waist, suddenly got free. She leant down to her ankle to grab her dagger. As she pulled it out, the black-mouthed man was suddenly there, and kicked it out of her hand. She was still bent down, and he grabbed her shoulder and stamped violently on her wrist. She fell to the ground, pinned by his foot, and as she did, her wrist turned awkwardly and something snapped. A sharp, blinding pain shot up her arm. She cried out, arching her back, her arm outstretched, the boot squashing her hand into the ground.

The bearded one stood over her, his hands on his hips, shaking his head. 'Blimey,' he said to his companion. 'She's a bit of a feisty one.'

'It's that hair,' said the other. 'They say redheads have a bit of wildling in 'em.'

'Hhm.' The first man pressed his lips together and looked at her mildly. 'I've always wanted to fuck a wildling.' Sansa whimpered. He began to unbuckle his mailbelt. 'Well, I saw her fir – '

He suddenly thrust his chest forward. There was a startled expression on his face, and he toppled slowly towards her, crashing down on her side, an arrow in his back.

The other man looked round wildly. 'Fuck,' he breathed, pulling his sword out and taking his boot off her wrist, which felt as limp and useless as a doll's.

She rolled the tall man off her, sobbing as he wheezed a last breath. The arrow snapped in two underneath him. As she sat up, she could see the other man running back towards the path, sword in hand, before he stopped short, an arrow suddenly in his stomach, and wheeled round, crumpling to the ground. Dazed, Sansa stood up. She could hear more shouting, and a horse, trumpeting horribly. She looked at her hand.

It hung strangely, her thumb too far away from her wrist. A glimpse of white bone. The trees around her blurred, and tilted, and she watched the crushed leaves on the ground come rushing up towards her.


	20. Chapter 20

Moths were in her ears. Fluttering, trapped against her skull, trying desperately to get free. She was on a boat, swooning up and down, the back of her head rolling and thudding against something soft. The thin green taste of wildfire liquid was sloshing up and down in her throat. She could almost see it, a long trickle winding down inside her and suddenly rising up again. And bright woods, golden, full of soldiers ten feet tall and skeletal, their spears pointing up towards the sun. And she was nestling in a wolf's arms.

She was dreaming again, of being in a bed. Tucked in with heavy, starched linen, like someone was lying on her. Her feet sought the corners of the bed, as cool as the shadows made by dappled sunlight in a wood.

A woman was looking at her, seated very close to the bed, her face was warm with concern. She was perhaps ten years older than Sansa, with a ruddy complexion and wisps of wiry brown hair tucked under a thin white cap.

'Alright, lass?' She spoke softly, with the round inflections of a northerner.

'Am I home?' Her own voice sounded very far away, as if floating leagues above her.

'Don't think so,' said the woman. 'Unless you want to live on a poor goat farm with a man who snores too much.'

Sansa lifted her eyes. She was lying in a large bed in a small room with one high window that had a murky, thick pane. The stone walls bulged and were roughly whitewashed. She was in a smock, not her own. The woman put a cool palm against Sansa's forehead.

'Better', she said, and not to Sansa. Sandor was standing up in the furthest corner of the room, his head almost touching the ceiling. His face looked drawn

'I'll be downstairs, then,' he said to the woman, and slipped out of the door.

Sansa swallowed dryly. The woman leant down and brought up a cup and held it to her lips. She gulped it slowly, feeling the water wind down her throat and into her stomach, and lay her head back on the pillow, exhausted.

'What – where am I?'

'You're in my house. In my bed, in fact, not that me and Heweg are bothered when we're being paid for the pleasure.

Sansa didn't say anything, wishing her mind didn't feel so muddy. Her arm was lying folded diagonally over her chest on top of the sheets. A thin stick ran along the length of each side of her wrist, and her forearm and hand had been wrapped in white strips. She tried to move it. It was as if someone had stabbed a fork in her hand. '_Ow._'

'I wouldn't move that too much, if I were you,' said the woman, looking at her sagely. 'I'm no healer, but I've bound it up as best I could.'

'What - happened?'

'You had a fever.' The woman put the cup back down. 'A bad one, too. Reckon you would have gone to ground even if you hadn't been attacked.'

Oh Gods. The men. The two of them running her down. The arrows. She tried to move. 'Am I better, do you think?'

'You'll be fine. Maybe another day or two. Though I'll be happy to have this mattress back after all that sleeping with the goats.'

_All_ that sleeping? 'How long have I been here?'

The woman looked at her simply. 'You've been asleep for two days and nights, lass.'

'Two days…?' Sansa repeated, wonderingly.

'Just as well you've got your big man looking out for you, whatever he is to you.'

Sansa looked at her. 'Do you – do you think so?'

'I reckon.' The woman raised her eyebrows. 'He hasn't slept as far as I know in all the time you've lain there. Just sat here, waiting on you like a faithful hound.' She gestured to the chair she was sitting in.

Sansa took a long, deep breath in, and closed her eyes.

The woman's name was Elisota, and she lived with her quiet husband Heweg in a small farmholding, some way east of the Kingsroad. They didn't seem to have children. There were goats and chickens, and a field full of vegetables, all swelling in the late summer balm. Sansa regained her appetite very quickly once Elisota brought her roast chicken and carrot stew, and fresh-baked rye bread with goat's buttermilk. And she had a bath. It was in not much more than a tin bucket, but it seemed to her to be the height of luxury, with warm water heated from their kitchen fire. The bathwater looked like a swamp after she stepped out of it

She realised that Sandor was paying the couple to look after them, but Elisota's kindness seemed genuine. Sandor had told them that he was her father's trusted friend and was escorting her north to get work in one of the big castles – Sansa had almost given them both away when Elisota had called her Fira and she'd protested. She'd explained it away by pretending to feel groggy. Elisota had stroked Sansa's hair and said, 'Did your mother call you that because of your locks?' Sansa had asked what she meant. 'Fira – fiery one. You must have known that.'


	21. Chapter 21

She was devouring cabbage soup and a hard, sour cheese when Sandor stooped his head through the doorway and stood there looking at her. She hadn't seen him for the last day. He was eating an apple and looked much better than when she'd last glimpsed him.

'Got your wolf's stomach back then.' He nodded at her rickety wooden tray.

She smiled sheepishly at him, chewing cheese. She was using her good hand; her other arm had been strapped by Elisota with more linen strips around her chest and shoulder.

He gestured to it. 'How's that?'

'It hurts,' she replied. 'But – I'm sure it will get better.'

'She seems to know what she's doing,' said Sandor, lifting his shoulder up to her. 'She patched me up and all.' He came and sat down in the wooden-framed chair next to her bed, taking his swordbelt off and squeezing his frame in.

'Do you really need your armour on in here?' she said, watching him struggle.

He settled awkwardly. 'After our last run-in, I'm taking no chances.'

Sansa put her spoon down and looked at him seriously. 'Sandor.' He stopped crunching, his mouth full of apple pulp, and looked at her. 'Thank you.' He gave a slow smile and continued chewing, keeping his eyes fixed on her. 'What did you - do?'

'How did I kill them, you mean?' He looked wry, and dark-eyed. She nodded. He held up a finger. 'Arrow in the back.' He held up a second finger. 'Arrow in the stomach. And a sliced throat, just to be sure.' And he added a third. 'Sword through the belly of the worst arrowman in Westeros.' He bit into his apple.

Sansa gulped, trying not to look too impressed. 'Who were they, do you think?'

He spoke while eating. 'Bandits. Mummers. Or Brotherhood scouts, maybe.'

'What's that?'

'You haven't heard of them?' He raised his eyebrows. 'The Brotherhood without Banners. They were sent by your father to kill my brother. But they failed, and those that lived skulked off to form some mad faction of their own.' He looked disdainful. 'Robbing the rich, feeding the poor, that sort of thing. Though if it _was_ them, they weren't very well abiding by their own rules to look after commonfolk. Unless they knew you were something more than common.'

Sansa was silent, remembering how they'd treated her, and what they'd planned to do. 'Why did you call me Fira?' He flinched, then shrugged offhandedly. She persisted. 'You know what it means. You chose it on purpose'. She paused. 'You don't _like_ fire.'

He leant towards her and narrowed his eyes, half-teasing. 'It's good to stare in the face of things you're afraid of,' and sat back again.

'You're not afraid of _me_,' she said, feeling a little mournful. 'Why did you name me after something you're afraid of?'

He rubbed his eye affectedly. 'Your hair is the colour of fire. Everytime I look at you I think of it. And it was my sister's name'.

She stared at him, her forehead furrowing. There was surely no higher bestowment that she could have from him. It was plain that he'd cared very deeply for his sister. She offered him some cheese. He shook his head. 'When shall we be leaving?'

'As soon as you're ready.'

'I'll be better by tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow then.' He looked at her seriously. 'Sansa.' She looked up at him, bright-eyed. He stared at her, biting his lip. She kept her eyes fixed on him, waiting. He took a deep breath in.

'What is it?' she asked.

'It's your horse.'

It wasn't what she was expecting. 'What – about her?'

'The last man. He sighed raggedly. 'I don't know. I guess he could see his end coming. He cut her, out of spite.'

'Cut her where?' she asked, a lump rising in her throat.

'Across the belly.'

Sansa breathed in, sharply. He shook his head, his shoulders sagging. 'She – she wouldn't have made it. I had to finish her.'

She felt her eyes begin to sting with tears. 'How?' she asked, her mouth almost closed.

'I slit her throat. Very quickly, very hard. She was dead straightaway.' Sansa looked down at her soup. 'I'll get you another one.'

'I don't want another one,' she said, tight-lipped, before realising how childish she sounded. 'Sorry.' She tried to ignore the tear rolling down her cheek. 'Thank you.'

Elisota had packed them bread, cheese, a cabbage, carrots and tomatoes for their onward journey. Sandor stood awkwardly in their tiny kitchen, holding a dead grouse at the neck, as Sansa came into the room, wearing one of the two dresses that he'd bought from Elisota. It was a little big for her around the waist, but fit well enough, and it was far cleaner than the dress she'd worn for days. It was a mustard-yellow, with darker threads edging the neckline, large grey pleats in the skirt, and a leather belt.

The farmwoman looked her up and down, wiping her hands on a rag. 'Well, you wear it better than I, that's for sure.' She gave Sandor a sly sidelong look, which he studiously avoided, and then went to Sansa to help her wrap her arm up to her chest, turning her round to do so. 'You need to keep an eye on that. See a maester or a healer if you can. It might fester.' She handed Sansa a bundle, which she gathered to herself with her good arm. 'There's your other one, fresh and new, plus another of mine.'

'Thank you,' Sansa said, looking at her earnestly. 'For everything.'

Elisota shushed her. 'He paid us, remember? You should come here more often. You're a better earner than our goats are.' She smiled softly at her and cupped Sansa's cheek. 'You be safe, lass.' She looked up at Sandor. 'And you watch over her.' She looked back at Sansa but kept speaking to him. 'If she's a lowborn, then I'm the next Queen of Westeros.'

Heweg, small and round, with eyes dark as raisins, was waiting outside with Stranger, who was saddled and prepared. He handed the reins to Sandor silently and helped attach their saddlebags and the limp grouse. The destrier had a lot more baggage now.

Sansa put her hand up to Stranger's neck. 'Can he carry both of us?'

'Look at him,' said Sandor. Stranger brought his great head down and nuzzled her palm sloppily. 'Course he can.' He put his hands round her waist. 'Ready?'

She nodded. He lifted her up, as easily as if she were a straw dummy. She grabbed onto the front of the saddle with her good arm and swung her leg over. He put his foot in the stirrup and launched himself up and behind her, his thighs encasing hers, his torso pressed right up to her back. Stranger harrumphed, taking a step forward. 'Shush, you,' said Sandor, and took the reins from Heweg, who also handed him a wineskin, his eyes crinkling. Sandor nodded his thanks, linking it to his belt.

Elisota and Heweg watched them leave from the wonky gate of their smallholding, she shoving a hand through her husband's arm at the elbow. Sansa turned her face back in the direction that they were heading. It was a hazy day, insects buzzing drowsily in the fields around them. 'Heweg never spoke to me.'

'Nor I,' said Sandor at her ear. She tilted her head half-round to him. 'I tried my best. Think she probably does all the talking for the both of them. Played cards with him, though. Sly bastard won a bag of coin off me without saying a damned word. And drank me under the table.'

She laughed under her breath and then grew silent, feeling his closeness to her. His arms were at her shoulders, holding Stranger's reins. She could smell him. Leather and sweat and apples. She was desperately sad about Sorrel, but - she felt safe. Elisota had called him her 'big man'. She liked that. He was. He'd killed those scouts to rescue her, and he'd sat up at her bedside for days and nights waiting for her to wake up. She carefully tipped her chin back a little, felt the metal of his neck armour against her skull, and rested her head lightly to the side of it against his chest.


	22. Chapter 22

At their camp that night, Sandor wouldn't let her do anything. He insisted on making the fire, preparing the grouse, and cooking it, whilst she sat there, wrapped in a blanket. 'I'm not _dying_', she had protested idly, but he wouldn't hear of it. She couldn't help secretly grinning to herself, mildly gleeful at being practically waited on. It was like being a highborn all over again.

He kept their fire strong, too, as they began to prepare to sleep. Sansa shifted herself up off the ground to wind the blanket more tightly round herself.

'Sansa, you – ' He was sitting up against a tree. 'You should –' he swallowed, '- come here.'

She got up slowly, wearing her blanket like a great, thick shawl and stepped towards him, waiting for his instruction.

He looked at her, as if unsure of how to proceed. 'Sleep here,' he said, suddenly resolute, patting the ground with an overly grand gesture. She looked at him. 'I don't want you - catching another fever.'

Sansa paused for a moment, awkwardly, then knelt down and curled up on the ground on her side, her knees and face towards him. There was a silence, and then he pulled his own blanket over him, and shifted down on his back.

She didn't sleep for a long time. And nor did he. He'd snore if he were _really_ asleep. She lay very still, but occasionally, from where her head lay coddled in the blanket, raised her eyes carefully up to his face. He was lying, his hands clasped across his stomach, staring upwards. She could hear him blinking. He suddenly began to turn towards her and she swiftly pretended to be asleep. He must have been lying on his side now, facing her. She daren't open her eyes. Breathe deeply, she told herself. Stay very still. Breathe deeply.

She was running and there were men behind her. Men from Fleabottom, cursing and yelling and chasing her. She was in a wood, barefoot, her feet bleeding from stones on the path, and suddenly the trees were turning into men too, one by one, unfolding their arms and smiling as they stepped towards her, wearing armour made of bark. She dodged them, and ran straight into Joffrey, all in gold. He flashed a grin as he held her by the throat and lifted her skirt with his sword.

She sat bolt upright, her hand slamming into the ground, her other hand pushing at its bandage.

'It's alright,' came Sandor's voice from the darkness, low and reassuring. Underneath her bound hand she could feel her heart hurling against her ribcage. The tall, thin shadows of the trees asserted themselves softly, and she could just make out Stranger's haunch where he lay down. 'It's just a dream.' He was sprawled on his back again, hands clasped, his face turned towards hers.

Sansa felt like an idiot. 'I'm sorry'. She lay down on her back, feeling the thump of her heart as it calmed.

'You have a lot of bad dreams,' he said, turning his face upwards to face the sky.

She looked up at the murky smudge of trees and dark sky, seeing the men from her dream, and from the riots, and her attackers in the woods. She took a big, uneven breath in and spoke quietly and fiercely. 'Why do men – do that?' He didn't answer. 'Cersei said that it's when they get their blood up.' She paused. 'After a fight.' He still didn't respond. She gave up and shut her eyes.

'Not all men.' The words were subdued.

She opened her eyes again, staring straight upwards, feeling hollow and dully furious. 'You said all men were killers. Why aren't they all – rapists too?'

There was another long silence. 'Is your brother Robb a rapist?'

Sansa felt a dim pain in her stomach. 'No.'

'Or your bastard brother?'

She thought of Jon, his soft voice, and his hunger to be brave and noble up there in the freezing wastes. 'No.'

'The other grown men at Winterfell. Your master-at-arms. Your maester. The captain of the guards. Before he was killed, anyway.'

She gave a small, tight sigh. 'I don't – no.'

'And what about your father? He was many things, but he didn't have a reputation for taking women, or letting his men do the same.'

Her heart sank as she thought of her father, before they'd gone to King's Landing, putting his hand on her hair or wheeling her round after a feast, before she got too embarrassed for him to do that and would squirm away. 'Yes. I mean - I know.'

They lay in silence. 'Not all men, then.' His voice was still low, and slightly guarded.

Sansa took a deep breath, and shivered. 'Sorry.' She curled over on her side to face him, her forehead just touching his arm, and her knees against his thigh. He didn't move. Nor did she.


	23. Chapter 23

When Sansa woke up, it was light and Sandor was already up, seeing to Stranger. It's true that she had been a little less cold last night, and slept well, after her dream at least. She watched him as he quietly moved about, trying not to wake her. He tipped some water onto his hand and splashed himself and mopped it into his hair. She found herself thinking of how he was not nine or ten days ago, a fierce, hate-filled warrior, hardly able to utter two kind words to her, and now… He'd made her into something stronger, brought out the wolf in her, and she'd softened him. She knew she had.

He came over to her and picked up his blanket and she shut her eyes quickly, opening them again as he walked away, rolling his blanket up and stretching his shoulders. She bit her lip, knowing that she was feeling more than just admiration, and gratefulness. He walked back over to her, more loudly. She pretended to be asleep. He crouched down next to her, leaning over her head, and she felt a hand on her shoulder. Her stomach panged.

'Come on, you.' She took a deep breath in, and pretended to wake slowly, rolling over onto her back and looking dozily at him. His eyes crinkled a little. 'Break your fast,' he said, holding a bread roll alarmingly close to her face.

They rode, faster than the day before, on a path with open fields on one side and a wood on the other. Sansa had to clutch tight onto the front of the saddle, her good hand cramping. She made no disguise of her tiredness, laying her head right back against his chest, listening to his heart thump. He stayed silent. Halfway through the morning, three plump pheasants flapped across their path and into the trees.

Sandor halted Stranger and slid off from behind her. 'I'll have one of them.' He grabbed his bow and his two arrows and then looked up at Sansa and over at the horizon, suddenly uncertain.

'I'll be alright,' she said.

He looked at her, his forehead knotted. 'Maybe I shouldn't. I should never have left you alone that last time.'

She patted Stranger on the neck and took up his reins. 'I've got Stranger. And my dagger. And a cabbage.'

He grinned at her, shaking his head. 'I'll not be long.' He stalked off down the path and turned off it, ducking under a branch.

The path was quiet, and calm. For once, she didn't feel worried. She tilted her face up to the mild sun, as Stranger gently thudded his hooves and shifted her about. After a few minutes, she heard a shout, and some cracking branches in the wood. Oh Gods. She tightened Stranger's reins nervously, and looked about her, scanning the trees. The stallion flicked his mane, aggressively. Suddenly Sandor crashed out of the bushes, holding a female pheasant by the neck, its wings hanging loosely outwards, with an arrow in its breast. He held his bow in the other hand, looked about for Sansa, and strode towards her.

As he approached, she could see blood dripping on his unburnt cheek.

'You're hurt!' She tried to still Stranger, who was stamping his feet restlessly. Sandor threw his bow and the bird down onto the grass, and held the horse's reins to calm him. Then he put his arms round Sansa's waist and hoisted her down. She looked up at his face, worried.

'The poacher's life obviously isn't for me.' He smiled dryly down at her, though he seemed touched at her concern. 'You'd think the arrow would have killed her. Fucking thing almost pecked my eyes out before I snapped her neck.' He sat down on the grass heavily, cross-legged. Sansa rifled in his saddlebag for a waterskin, and knelt down in front of him, beginning to unwrap a thin surface bandage from her wrist. He saw what she was doing. 'Don't do that'.

She ignored him and pulled it free. 'Let me see.'

'It's alright Sansa, save your nursing,' he said, turning his face slightly away from her. Blood trickled from several small deep cuts at his cheekbone and onto his legs.

'But it _is_ bleeding. Quite _badly_.'

He touched his cheek and eyed the blood on his finger. 'Ay. Go on, then.' He wiped his hand on the grass next to him.

Sansa tucked the rag between her knees, and tipped the waterskin onto it with her good hand. She held it to his cheekbone to staunch the bloodflow, suddenly aware of how close she was to him, her skin beginning to prickle. The white linen slowly reddened, ink spreading on parchment.

'Wine might be better,' he said, looking at her gently from under his hooded eyelids. She quickly went and fetched it, and wet her bandage. Wine and blood mixed. She held it to his cheekbone again, glancing up to find him looking quietly back at her, and dropping her eyes swiftly to his cuts.

'Stabbed with a goldcloak's sword, a crazed she-wolf's dagger, and now a pheasant's beak. Things are going downhill fast.' She stifled a quick giggle. He caught her reaction and gave her a slow, wry smile. She swallowed, her grin fading self-consciously. Her heart was pounding.

Sansa lifted the rag cautiously to check underneath it. The blood flow was ebbing now; a drop seeped slowly along a small, diagonal line towards his temple.

'It'd better not scar.'

'I'm sure it won't.' She mopped the drop gently.

'Ay, cause that'd be perfect, wouldn't it? The _other_ side of my face starting to get battered.'

She took in a breath, suddenly knowing what to do, and kept her voice as serene as she could. 'It's really not that bad.'

'Good.' He was mock-solemn. 'I'll be rampaging through all the woods in Westeros seeking my vengeance if it does'.

Sansa gave the tiniest bite to her bottom lip and shook her head. 'Not this,' she said, dabbing at his cut a final time, and then carefully putting the blood and wine-soaked linen down on the ground. She looked up at his slightly puzzled brown-grey eyes squarely, a tingling sensation in her throat. 'This.' She put her good hand up to the cheek on the burnt side of his face and held it there. Sandor's big frame suddenly froze. '_This_ isn't that bad.'

She lightly drew her forefinger along a raised ridge of red skin downwards from his outer cheekbone, and then at the corner of his barely-there ear and along his jawline, a lock of hair being pulled with it, and then at the point where the hair of his eyebrow disappeared, moving towards his temple. Neither of them seemed to be breathing. He was looking at her as if caught somewhere between terror and being ready to pounce.

'Can you not feel that?' she said, her voice very quiet and still. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes fixed on her face. It was as if a stone was lodged in her gut. She moved her hand to the other side of his face, stroking the back of her hand on the soft part of his cheek above his beard, not quite believing that she dared. 'How about this?'

Sandor breathed in slowly, his lips parting slightly. 'Sansa.' His voice was distant, low, and like a warning.

'Don't,' she said, her fingers still on his face. 'I know what you're going to say.' She tried to look resolute. 'Just –don't.'

She took a sudden breath in, and lifted herself up onto her knees so that her face was level with his. She leant forward, her good hand on his knee, and kissed him, briefly and a little awkwardly, her eyes shutting for an instant. She felt rough lips and the bristles of his beard.

She leant back slightly, lifting her eyes up to his, desperate for a sign that he'd not hated it.

'Sansa.' He shook his head just once, and caught her hand. 'You shouldn't – we shouldn't – should not be – doing that.'

'Don't you want to?' She let the tiniest shred of hope colour her question.

His shoulders heaved in a big breath. 'Gods.' He seemed to be struggling to say more. 'You don't want to be –' he swallowed – 'kissing an ugly torched old dog like me.'

'Don't say that,' she said, emphatically shaking her head. 'I think you're - handsome.'

He laughed suddenly, a near-bark that sent two crows crashing out of the tree behind them, and let go of her hand. 'Now I _know_ you're crazy. You've been in the woods too long. The children of the forest have started whispering to you.'

'Stop it', she said, half-smiling, but slightly hurt. 'Don't mock me.'

He sighed, his smile disappearing abashedly. He looked at her mouth, and at her, and at her mouth again, and then leant back gingerly, as if backing away from a dangerous animal. 'We should – ' he stopped, as if considering what he was about to say, and then making up his mind. 'We should go'.

The ride was not as awkward as it could have been. Sansa couldn't help being enclosed in his arms upon Stranger, and it still felt comfortable, even if they didn't talk. Her mind was racing wildly. It probably hadn't been the best kiss in the Seven Kingdoms. Too panicked. But she didn't think she'd done the wrong thing. She'd wanted to, and she knew he did too. All those looks he'd been giving her. In the river, her legs, even when she came down in her ill-fitting dress at the smallholding. He was just being – proper, knowing it would be frowned upon. She was sure of it.

They ate the pheasant that night, with Sandor again doing most of the work, though he did let her pluck the bird. She could do that well enough with one hand, the pheasant a dead weight on her lap. She tucked a long brown and white feather behind her ear. He'd been eyeing her sidelong all day, thoughtfully, then masking it with attempts at his old brusqueness. He had held his hands around her waist for a moment longer than necessary as he helped her down from Stranger, and looked down at her, full of indecision. It made her bolder than ever to see him so tongue-tied.

Sansa was playing with the pheasant feathers, splaying them out, gathering them up, and placing them in order of height, or colour. She occasionally glanced up from behind her hair at him, sitting over the other side of the fire, his legs crossed out in front of him, and imagined kissing him again, and doing it better. He was picking at his teeth with the tip of a feather, and caught her eye. She looked down at her feathers, hiding a smile.

'Sansa, if you keep looking at me like that, you're going to be in trouble.' His voice was casual.

'That's the idea,' she said, not looking up and hoping she sounded nonchalant. She lay the feathers tip to tip in a circle on the ground.

He took an audible breath in and scratched his head. She thought she heard him whisper something to himself under his breath, though it might have been the fire hissing. Neither of them spoke for a while.

'Come here, then,' he suddenly said.


	24. Chapter 24

Sansa felt a knot twist in her stomach. She placed the feathers carefully in a pile, stood up, and walked over to him, thinking of the time he'd made her hand over the dagger. She stood next to his arm, her shoulders tense.

He tilted his head up at her, taking the feather out of his teeth and putting it on the ground. 'Sit down.'

She went to sit next to him but he swiftly took up her good hand and pulled her towards him. He gently clasped her ankle and lifted it until she was standing over his legs, and tugged at the back of her knee so that she slowly sat down, straddling his thighs. His hands were between her thighs and her calves, folded in the outer parts of her skirts. He lifted his thumbs and stroked them down the little part of her dress towards his other fingers, gazing at her intently. Sansa didn't know where to put her good hand, and was too nervous to look at him. He lifted his hands and put them at her back, around her ribcage, and drew her towards him. She put her hand out onto the studded leather mail of his chest to balance as she bent forward, and as she did so, he caught her face in a kiss.

It lasted a long moment, his lips pressed against hers, before he pulled back, just a little, his upper lip still practically touching hers. She breathed two shallow, stuttering breaths into his mouth before he gathered her bottom lip back up in his, very slowly and gently, and kissed her again. He brought his head back a little, pulling her lip outwards in the slightest tug before letting it go. She opened her eyes, her heart thudding.

'Was that what you wanted?' he said quietly, looking with sly keenness at her.

She gave a little nod.

He took in a long breath and put his hand up to her forehead, folding his fingers into her hair, and drew his forefinger and thumb down a long lock. She brought her hand up and traced the line between the ridge of his nose and the corner of his mouth with her middle finger, moved it along his bottom lip, and then ran her forefinger over his top lip in the other direction. He gripped behind her neck then and kissed her again, a little more hungrily, his hand flattening her hair there, and touching the raised bones at the top of her spine. She could taste his beard, and pheasant meat, and a sweetness of something else too. She kissed him back, her hand on his shoulder, happy at how easy they were. Her first proper kisses.

He sat back with a sigh suddenly, holding her with both hands around the bottom of her waist. 'Your brother will have my head on a spike for this.''No, he won't.'

She frowned. 'Robb's kind, and just.'

'What, the Young Wolf?' He sounded slightly scoffing, his old self. 'Didn't sound too much like it from the reports at the Red Keep.'

'He's not like Joffrey. I know you think all lords are the same, but they're not. You know as well as I do that Joffrey's – he's a monster. He's – _deranged_. Robb wouldn't do anything like that. I'm his _sister_.' She looked at him thoughtfully, and said in a rush, 'and anyway, why does he need to know?'

Sandor arched his eyebrows high. 'Oh that's it, is it? You're just using me for practice, are you?'

She sat up straight. 'No! I – I don't know.' She couldn't tell if he was joking or not, and didn't want to offend him.

He looked amused at her uncertainty, and put his hands out behind him on the ground, his thighs raising her slightly higher. 'Ah, it's fine. You can use me for target practice if it pleases you.' He paused for effect, straight-faced. 'As long as your aim is better than when you had a go at those rabbits.'

Sansa shoved him hard on the chest and he toppled backwards, though he probably hadn't needed to. She quickly stood up over him and put her boot on his chest, just below his neck armour, putting her good hand on her hip and frowning at him, pretending to be fierce. He was grinning like a fool at his own quip, but took her by the ankle, just underneath her skirts, his fingers strongly gripping her just above her boot. She wobbled, and almost fell with a yelp. He released her.

She stepped off him, and stood next to him. He moved his head to the side leisurely, squinting up at her. 'I have to – I'll be back.'

He knew what she meant. 'Don't go far.'

'I won't,' she said, walking towards the trees.

Oh Gods. She crouched down, watching the steam rise off the ground as she relieved herself, unable to stop herself grinning like an idiot. Her mouth was tingling. Her chest burning. She had kissed him. He had let her – more than that. He _had_ wanted to. It was the loveliest feeling she'd ever had.

When she returned, Sandor was adding a few more sticks to the fire. He had dumped their two blankets next to each other and taken off his armour. She sat down and gathered one of them around her with her good hand. He came over to her and squatted down in front of her, lifting the blanket up to shrug it over her shoulders and hold it under her chin, using it to pull her towards him slightly, as if for another kiss. But he changed his mind and let the blanket go, instead sitting down beside her and drawing his own blanket over his legs. She lowered herself slowly down with her elbows and lay on the ground next to him on her side, with her head at his hip, looking up at him, her eyes wide.

He looked down at her unblinkingly, and then broke his gaze with a sigh. 'You're a menace. What are you doing to me? You've been guarding some sly she-wolf tricks up your sleeves.'

She didn't move a muscle. 'I know that you wanted this all along.'

He folded his arms and looked at her guardedly. 'Oh, you do, do you?'

'Shae said you did.' He narrowed his eyes at her. 'It's not just that, I know y – I _know_ you did. Back at the castle. It's why you looked out for me.' He didn't say anything. 'Is that not true?'

'I don't know.' He sighed ruggedly, giving a little shake of his head. 'I didn't dream of it actually happening, that's for sure.'

She wondered about his past experiences. He'd never been married, but surely he'd been with other women, of what sort she didn't quite like to think about. 'How many ladies have you - kissed?'

Sandor took a sharp breath in, as if to retort quickly, then thought better of it. 'None of your business.' She was silent, dreading that she had annoyed him. He suddenly took up her good hand and pushed it over her body, manoeuvring her so that she rolled onto her back. 'You're definitely the prettiest though'.

Gently pinning her hand down by her ear, he leant slightly over her, his hair hanging down over his face. He plucked out the pheasant feather that was still tucked in her hair, and lightly touched the skin behind her ear with the soft furl of it. He used it to trace a line under her jaw towards her chin, and over her upper lip. It tickled, and she pressed her lips together with a scrunching smile. He put down the feather but continued touching her with a single finger, almost as light as the feather had been, from her neck under the middle of her jaw down to her collarbone. There was a rush of sudden, tingling warmth between her thighs. She could hardly breathe. He placed his forefinger in the little well at the base of her neck. As she swallowed, she felt her throat rise up against his finger.

Still holding her hand down against the ground, he cupped her cheek with his other hand, his thumb rubbing her cheekbone, and leant down and kissed her. She tilted her chin up a little into it. It was slow, and tender, and his lips were warm, and rough on the outside, but she could feel their softness further in.

His hand moved towards the back of her neck, his thumb gently stroking her earlobe, then moved his head back and looked at her. 'The prettiest in a while, anyway.' She widened her eyes in not entirely feigned indignation. He breathed a laugh into her face. 'Definitely the prettiest.'

'You're so mean.' She pretended to scowl at him.

'I know.' His voice was long and low, as if comforting a child.

She smiled, and then gazed at him seriously again. 'My hand's hurting.'

He looked alarmed. 'I'm sorry.' He sat back quickly, shoving a hand through his hair.

'It's alright,' she said, lightly.

Sandor lay on his side, and Sansa turned over towards him, leaving her blanket on the ground underneath her. He put his nearest arm out, and she lifted her head and rested it tentatively back down on his shoulder. He brought up his blanket, which had become tangled around his feet, over them both, and tugged her gently in towards him, his hand on her ribcage.

He breathed in her hair at the top of her head. 'You even smell like fire.'

When Sansa woke up, they were still lying in the same position. It was very dark, the heart of night she supposed. She raised her cheek from off his shoulder slightly, and brought her hand up to feel the grooves and ridges made by being crushed against his mail shirt. Like she had a cheek to match his, she thought, lowering it again. He smelt of earth, dry mud and nettles. He was breathing so deeply, as if the sea was rising up from the pit of his stomach and subsiding just before reaching his throat. She thought of her heart, beating solidly, enclosed by her ribs, like a conch in its ridged shell. And of herself as a conch too, encased in his arms.

And she imagined what they looked like from higher up, a raven's view, above the boughs of the trees: the pair of them, curled up together, encased by the whole dark wood. She was the raven hanging above them, flying higher and higher, until they disappeared out of sight beneath the trees, which tilted away from the surrounding fields and rubbled stone walls, and then hills and the Vale of Arryn, and so high up that the white peaks beyond the Wall could be seen, and the glint of the sea. She found herself wishing that they could always lie here like this, still and quiet, and hidden from everyone.


	25. Chapter 25

A raven squawked and she woke up again. It was light. Her mouth was dry. She had her back to him, and he had scooped her by the lowest part of her waist into his lap, his hand at the bend of her hips, his face against her hair. She wasn't sure if he was awake, and shifted slightly to test it. He didn't move, his breath warming the nape of her neck. Sansa tried to sense all the places where their bodies touched through the folds of their clothes. Every nerve felt heightened. It made her throat ache. What it would be like if they were naked and lying here like this? The thought made a flush flood through her. She clenched her thighs.

She had made Shae tell her how a man and a woman might lie together. It wasn't as if she hadn't understood the basics – Theon had whispered it all slyly in her ear one day when she was younger, hoping to frighten her – but she had known that there was more to it than that. Shae had refused to talk to her, but after Sansa's moonblood had come, she had relented, and been frank and demonstrative enough to make Sansa blush from ear to ear. At the time, of course, they'd been assuming that Joffrey would be bedding her. 'The right man knows how to satisfy a woman, not just fuck her for his own pleasure,' Shae had said, looking like she didn't believe for a second that Joffrey would be one of those men.

Sansa scratched her nose and Sandor stirred, emitting a low, muffled grumble. He unselfconsciously pulled her hip further in towards him, and she felt him harden through her skirts at the base of her back. She tried not to move, thinking she might burst into a giggle. He sniffed loudly, his breaths coming irregularly, and suddenly moved his hips away from hers. She lay still a moment longer, and then turned around to face him. His eyes were gummy and wrinkled at the corners, and he looked at her slightly guiltily.

'Hello,' she said in a small voice.

'Hello yourself.' He sounded scratchy and faraway.

She tipped her chin up towards him and kissed him, quite shyly. He tasted slightly musty, like stale bread. He made a little sighing, sleepy groan behind closed lips and put his hand in her hair. She smiled at him, sheepishly. 'I'm sorry, I think my mouth might taste horrid.'

'No…' He drew out the word in a long, lazy drawl, moving his hand to the back of her head and kissing her once, and then again, breathing into her. 'You taste of summertime', he said in between kisses, 'and, I don't know, - peaches and – wine.' He stopped, and looked vaguely into the middle distance above her. 'And maybe just a bit of dead rabbit.' Sansa punched him in the jaw. 'Ow!' He rubbed his face, laughing. 'You don't know your own strength.'

She gave him her most ferocious look. 'Better be nicer, then.'

He grabbed her around the waist, lifting her body up towards him. Leaning awkwardly on the elbow of her wounded arm, she buried her face in his neck, feeling the taut ridges of his scars against her cheekbone. Sansa kissed him there, and then lower on his neck where the skin was soft again, below his beard. He smoothed his palms over her back. She brought up a hand to his mailshirt and tugged it down ever so slightly, to reveal paler skin below the brown neckline. She moved her head to put her lips there, moving her leg up between his thighs as she did so. She could feel him hard in his trousers against her knee.

He suddenly twisted his waist away from her. 'Sansa. You don't know what you're doing.'

She brought her face up to his, hurt. 'I know I don't. But – you could show me.'

Sandor looked faintly panicked. 'That's not what I meant.' He took a breath in. 'You're not thinking.'

'I don't want to think.'

'Then you're being green,' he said, a little brusquely.

Sansa lowered herself off his chest and rolled back down to the ground onto her back. She turned her face towards him. 'Don't you want to?'

Sandor opened his mouth, and clamped it shut again. 'Seven hells. You're not making this easy for me.'

'I don't want to be – attacked – and it be my first time,' she blurted, looking up at him, and then down again. 'I want to - try it with you.'

He answered her quickly. 'That's not how it's going to be. You're supposed to be wedded to some highborn lord with a big castle keep and legions of bannermen shouting his name, and when you are bedded, they sure as the Gods will expect you to be a maiden.'

'I don't _care_. I don't want to be married to a lord. I did that already, remember? He killed my father, my sister's missing, and my brother's started a war against him. I'm not doing that again.'

He persisted, calmly. 'Ay, but you will, whether you like it much or not. Your family are no different from any other, as much as you think otherwise. They'll marry you off to win fresh allies just about as soon as you're back home and have had a hot bath.'

'You said I should fight against that,' she said, feeling a tightness in her chest. He sighed. 'You _did_!'

He spoke more earnestly. 'Sansa, you need to be realistic. We do what we have to, to survive. You'll do it, because you have to. And you'll need to be a maid.'

Sansa stared up at the sky. The tree boughs were rigid, wagging fingers.

'You'll probably be lucky,' he said, trying to appease her. 'He'll be - nice. And _young_. And less burned.'

'I don't care about that,' she said, still looking upwards. He didn't reply, but she knew that he believed her. Her stomach felt tangled. She was embarrassed, and frustrated. He wanted to bed her, it was as plain as day.

'You know I'm not going to let anything happen to you,' he said, more gently. 'I'll kill anyone who as much as looks at you. And I'll get you home, and safe, and you'll forget all about this.' She should have been glad to hear it, but her heart sank.

They packed up, Sansa dragging her feet sulkily, he pretending not to notice. As he got behind her on the saddle, she looked round fiercely. _'Please_ can we find an inn tonight? Proper food and a bath? We must be far enough north now?'

He looked down at her, considering it. 'Ay, alright, you win, if we're near enough. We'll just have to make sure our story's straight. And hope to the Gods no one recognises us.'


	26. Chapter 26

Sansa ate half an apple moodily and passed it back to Sandor. He held the reins in one hand across her lap in order to take it, and kept it there as he crunched, loudly, in her ear. She felt like a fool. _And_ as hopeless as a late summer flower - even as his armour dug into her slightly - with his arm tight against her waist like that. She wanted it to be with _him_. She _did_. She felt safer with him than with anyone.

She squeezed her eyes shut, looking forward to a change of scene – an inn, and a bed again, and stew, not dry meat and raw vegetables. She knew it was risky, with the chance that someone might recognise one of them, but there were many inns in Westeros and many people to fill them who would never have even heard of the Hound, or Sansa Stark, let alone know their faces. Perhaps Sandor would act differently with her if they had their own room. Or maybe he'd be worse, she thought huffily, and take a separate room, like a Knight of the damned Black Watch, and lie there thinking of her in the next one. She sighed dramatically, and heard him exhale the slightest gentle laugh at her, throwing the apple core into the grass.

Later in the day, there was a sound ahead that made Sansa's heart plunge. Sandor pulled on Stranger's reins to listen. It sounded like thousands of distant, furiously galloping hooves, many leagues away.

'What is that?' she asked, very quietly.

He didn't answer, still straining to hear, keenly. Maybe they had stumbled into the middle of the war. Then she thought that she heard him laugh, and he spurred Stranger on. She held onto the saddle, hoping that he wasn't leading them gleefully into a melée of spears and axes and bloodletting. They galloped down a slope, with a steep bank of tall, dark trees stretching far below them, and the sound became louder, bleeding into something more like the hiss of innumerable serpents. The path finally levelled, and he slowed them down. They came into a clearing, facing a large pool, and a waterfall, as high as one of the walls at Winterfell.

'You said you wanted a bath,' said Sandor.

'That is _not_ a hot bath', said Sansa, gazing at it. It was beautiful, though, and deafening. He eased himself off Stranger and helped her down. She walked up to the edge of the pool, her boots smudging the dark, dense mud. The fall of the water was mesmerising. A snowfall, or a blur of doves' wings. Swirls of fine mist puffed into the air in front of it, catching in the light of the slim sunrays that filtered down through the trees.

'Might not be so cold.' There was a hint of a challenge in his voice as he joined her at the edge. She looked down at the water, a glinting black-blue, like the dragonglass blade that Maester Luwin had once shown her and Ayra. 'It'll get you clean, that's for sure.' He was grinning.

Then she'll show him, she thought. She fingered for the edge of the linen that bound her hand to her chest, and pulled it, carefully unwrapping the long strip from her back and shoulder, so that her arm was free, though her wrist still bandaged. It throbbed.

'Help me then.' She turned her back to him. He didn't move, startled. She looked at him over her shoulder. 'I'm not going in there in my dress.'

He looked caught in indecision for a moment, then shook his head slightly. 'It doesn't matter, I'm just teasing you.

'No,' she said, in charge now. 'You're right. I'm filthy. I just need help'.

He took a step towards her, took up the woollen strings at her shoulder blades and tugged at one of them, and then slowly unlaced it. Sansa stared out at the pool, feeling quite calm, his knuckles against her back. She felt the top of her dress around her ribcage loosen and took one shoulder of it, pulling it down under her bandaged arm to her waist. She felt round to the bottom of the bodice and made sure it was loose enough, and then as gracefully as she could, stepped out of the dress, standing in her boots and her smock. She shoved it unceremoniously at Sandor, not making eye contact. Finally, she sat down on a tree root, and picked at the laces of her boots, kicking them away, pulling her stockings off and removing her dagger strap.

She stood up again, and walked back to the side of the pool, where it was at its shallowest. Sandor was holding her dress and watching her, slightly agog. Sansa didn't look at him. She could see part of her white smock reflected in the water, a ghost under the surface. Taking a quick, deep breath in, she put her good hand to the back of her underdress, below her neck and pulled it up, over her head, the material brushing up over her thighs, and hips, and waist, and breasts. It floated off from the back of her head, and left her standing there, naked. She dropped it and stepped forward, into the water.


	27. Chapter 27

The mud squelched insipidly between her toes, and jagged little stones dug into her soles. It was very cold, but she wasn't going to turn back. She didn't dare look round. The ground shelved very gradually, the clear, weedless water coming up to her knees, and then her thighs, making her gasp, though she stifled it. It was like being back at Winterfell, in the middle of the summer. The pools there were always in shade and never warmed. She would hurl herself in, not wearing a thread, when she was a little girl, before she cared about ruining her hair or getting muddy.

The water reached her hips, and then enclosed her at the waist, so cold it almost bit. She stood there for a moment, looking up at the waterfall, feeling the spray glitter her face, her back facing the bank. She trailed her hands in the water. Then she sank forward, and in. It made her chest burn, and she swam quickly, in shallow movements, her good hand doing most of the work. She floated right up to the fall, then took a deep breath and ducked under, kicking her legs, swimming right through the pounding water, and coming up with a gasp into the tiny pool behind it.

It was as if she had her head in a thundercloud. She hung there, treading water, facing the bank, the water hurling down in front of her, a thick veil. Sandor was standing where she'd left him at the bank, a dark, still figure. She felt a little exhilarated, knowing she'd shocked him by going in like this. It served him right. The water churned like a great stewpot, foaming around her neck.

She wanted to stay here forever, hidden from everyone, a dappled, unspeaking child of the forest who could turn into water and tumble away. Her breath started to judder and she shivered, suddenly and violently. Her wrist was beginning to ache, though the cold had seemed good for it. She would have to go back. She inhaled deeply and swam under the fall again, through clouds of water like swirling, gauzy skirts, and spat water out as she surfaced.

He was still standing there. Sansa couldn't see his expression. She was beginning to feel a little foolish, but loitered in the water for as long as she could bear, turning on her back, spinning in lazy circles using her good hand. She felt suddenly very nervous. She didn't want to get out, but her toes were utterly numb. Swimming over to the shallows, she kept her body under the water as long as she could, until the stones were grazing her knees. She swallowed hard, and stood up, dripping, in front of him, her hair plastered to her shoulders, not daring to make eye contact. She wanted to cover herself with her hands but walked slowly out, trying to look like she hadn't a care in the world, and stepped onto the bank. She raised her eyes to him.

'You might have drowned.' His voice sounded muddy.

'I _can_ swim.' He looked completely anguished, and she knew that he wanted to touch her. 'Can I have my dress, please?' she said, as calmly as she could, but hearing the words come out as taut as a fencewire. She held her hand out, loosening drops of pool-water.

Sandor opened his mouth, without taking a breath, and shut it. He looked at her shoulders, and her breasts, and swallowed. Sansa lowered her hand, and stood there, looking at him, having no idea what to say, or do, next. Every hair on her body was standing on end. He suddenly took her by the hand, and led her to a smooth patch of grass, and spread her dress out on it. He righted, and wordlessly began to undo his armour. He removed his sword-belts and lay them on the ground, and took a step closer, looking down at her with an expression that she couldn't read.

He put a hand on her damp neck, and moved it along her shoulder and down her upper arm, watching his fingers. Sansa felt like one of the statues in her family's crypt, cold, and clammy, the words frozen in stone. He clenched her arm muscle, tightly, released it, and then cupped her breast. She emitted a tiny breath. His thumb touched her nipple. He smoothed his hand down her side, and held it at her hip. She kept her eyes on his, but he didn't look at her, his palm moving round to the very base of her spine, pulling her, just with his forefinger, a half-step towards him. He slid his hand down over her buttock, and gripped her, his palm on her bottom, his fingers on her inner thigh, almost touching her right – _there_. It was as if he was holding her up an inch off the ground.

He looked at her then. 'Do you want to?' His voice was very low.

Sansa nodded. She felt like she was in a dream, like this wasn't really happening to her anymore. Someone else was playing her part. He put his hand at her flank, and the other on her other hip, and pushed her gently backwards, and down. She moved to his pressure, kneeling first, folding her legs underneath her, and then slowly lying back on top of her rumpled dress, her knees bent. Her wounded arm was palm upwards beside her. She rested her other hand self-consciously on her stomach.

He knelt by her feet, removing his mail shirt, and unbuckling his breeches. She looked up at the pinecones nestling amongst the oily green needles in the tree above her. He put a hand on her knee, shifting himself up between her legs. She parted them slightly, and tipped her chin onto her chest. He was still wearing his white shirt. His hand moved down the inside of her leg, and Sansa felt the tip of his finger slide into her, and move upwards. There was a twinge as it reached the top. She was aware that she was damp, and warm there.

He put his hand on her inner thigh and pushed it gently out and downwards towards the ground, moving himself up so that his hips were pressed right against her. She couldn't see what he was doing. She felt him against her. It felt shocking, alien. As it would if a smooth river-rock was being pressed there. She looked back up at the trees. He pushed himself slowly into her, and she felt a searing pain, a flash. She blinked hard. The pine trees looked brighter, like lightning had blazed in, before becoming dark again. It really hurt. She clenched her teeth tightly together as his hipbones touched hers and then moved away slightly, and then came in again.

He leant down, his face in her neck, his breathing quiet and guttural. He was holding himself just slightly above her body, but she still felt stifled by his big frame. She put a hand on his back as she was sure she was supposed to, and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She had known that it would be painful. Everyone knew that. But she didn't realise how much. He was pressing even deeper into her, his hand on her buttock, their hips clashing. Her back was digging into something sharp. She waited for it to be over. She wanted it to be over. He began to move a little more quickly, his shirt rubbing against her breasts, and his breathing became ragged, like material being frayed. His hair was at her cheek. He suddenly pushed very deeply inside her, just once, and went rigid for a moment. Then there was a long, sudden outrush of breath, and they were both very still.

She was burning. She didn't breathe. He lifted himself onto his elbows to look at her, his hair falling over his face, flushed. She tried to compose herself, to look glacial, serene, but she hurt. A tear spilled from her eye and trickled down her cheek. He saw it, and looked at her, suddenly stricken, and then his eyes clouded.

'Fuck', he said, looking at her for a moment longer, and then manoeuvering himself out and off of her in a rush and bringing his breeches up over his hips. He stood between her legs, his mouth hanging open, gazing at her in dismay. And then he turned and walked away, slipping slightly on the grass.


	28. Chapter 28

The waterfall rushed and hissed, as it always had and always would. Sansa could feel the spray lightly drizzling on her skin. She lay there, unmoving, for a while. She felt hollowed out. It stung horribly. Then she propped herself up on her elbows gingerly, and put her fingers between her legs. There was blood, as she'd expected. She sat up quickly and saw that she'd bled onto her dress, crushed underneath her. She looked up, and around for Sandor. He was nowhere to be seen.

She glanced quickly at the pool, and at the waterfall, and then around at the rough-trunked pines. Stranger was standing calmly a little way off. She stood up quickly, whimpering slightly. Picking up the dress, she wiped herself with the inside hem, staining it further, before realising that the water would be better and stumbling over to it. She walked quickly into the shallow part of the pool, tears coming properly now, and crouched down, splashing herself with cold water.

She felt very naked and pale, surrounded by gloomy pines and black water. If someone came across her now, they'd think she was a ghost, or a forest nymph. She plucked up her smock from the bank and quickly pulled it over her head, her legs still wet, and then went over to Stranger and untied her own bundle. She pulled out the second dress that Elisota had given her, a heavy thing, dull purple. She got herself into it, still sobbing. It tied at the front, and she laced it over her chest with her good hand. Her wrist was starting to ache, and she collected the linen strips and bound it back around herself as best she could. And then she sat down to wait.

He didn't come back. Sansa had pulled Stranger's reins and he'd reluctantly lain down. She had leant against his great, dark flank and tried to imagine what Sandor would say when he returned, or what she would to him. Where had he gone? She had no idea what he would be thinking right now, or why he'd suddenly disappeared. He'd seen the tear, she knew, but - he had to come back. It was getting colder. She fastened her dagger strap, put her stockings over her muddy feet and fastened her boots. After the sun had lowered a little more, the underside of the leaves losing their light, she didn't think she could stand hearing the waterfall plunging unceasingly any longer. He wasn't coming back. Not until she'd gone.

Sansa stood up in a rush, fresh tears coming fast. She collected her bundle together, and loosened one of the waterskins, filling it at the pool edge until it brimmed. She found some bread in the saddlebag, grabbed her cloak, and started up the path they'd descended so much earlier. Stranger had creaked himself up off the ground, and moved about, unsure and restless. The more steps she took upwards, the quicker she wanted to get away. She started to run, trying to calm the stuttering in her chest. At the top of path, it broadened out into pale yellow fields, punctuated with copses. She began to walk.

She stopped when she reached what looked like a crossroads, although a very rough one, the paths rubbled and uneven. She was sweaty, and hot and feverish through crying. Her boots were giving her blisters. Which way would they have gone, if he'd been with her? Three directions could lead home, or lead to terrible dangers. She couldn't choose, and sat down to rest.

She picked her head up off of her knees when she heard a rickety rumble from the right hand road, looking up blearily, past caring if they were to be a threat or not. It was a cart. Sansa lay her head back down, morose, until it was closer, and then stood up to face it. A man in his thirties, with sandy hair sticking out at all angles, eyed her with some wariness as he flicked his horse's reins. She was a small, cream-coloured mare, or at least was underneath the layers of road-dust.

Sansa stood very still and straight as the cart drew level with her. 'Good day,' she said, slightly too loudly.

His eyes slid towards her, and then back to the road. 'And to you,' he said, the cart beginning to pass her.

She felt a sudden panic. He wasn't stopping. She turned and called, 'Are we near an inn?' The cart kept moving. 'Excuse me!' She began to run after it. 'Please – '. He brought the horse up, and tilted his head round to her. 'Please. Are we near an inn? Or a village?'

He took in her tear-stained face and bandaged hand. 'There's one not a half day towards Cherrycombe.' He frowned, but not unkindly. His eyes were as bright as the glaze on a pot, and he had pronounced lines on his cheeks. 'What are you doing out here on your own? Are you well?'

Sansa took a deep breath in. 'My companion – died.'

'_Died_?' He looked around at the distant fields. 'Where are they then?'

'Lost, died, it doesn't matter,' she said impatiently. Her story wouldn't have lasted long anyway. 'Can you take me there? To the inn?

'I'm heading some of that way, it's true enough.' He looked at her quizzically. 'Not sure my mare can take another, though.'

Sansa fumbled in her bundle, pulling out the gold necklace that Joffrey had given her. 'I can give you this. As my thanks.'

He squinted at it as it dangled from her hand, and then back at her, mildly. 'You'll have to sit on the back. I hope you like turnips.'

Sansa felt a wash of relief. 'Thank you.' She walked around to the back of the cart and levered herself up, onto a pile of turnips. He coughed at her, and she glanced round to find him looking nodding expectantly at her hand. She leant over and gave him the necklace. The cart began to trundle off, lumpily, over the path.


	29. Chapter 29

As the cart drew leagues and leagues away from the waterfall, and Stranger, the sun began to set, peach-coloured fronds fraying outwards into a wide, gauzy sky. The driver kept whistling, tunes she partly recognised, before they'd wind into something unfamiliar. Loose soil from the vegetables was rubbing off on Sansa's dress, and she sat on knobbled piles of turnips so hard and painful that she was sure she'd wake up with bruises, but she almost revelled in her discomfort. She felt empty, a silent, dark pool.

He had left her there. She couldn't stop thinking about his hands on her skin, cold and wet from the swim. Her shoulder, her arm, her hip. It was as if he'd left marks. And then his great weight, crushing her, though he had tried not to. And his breath, right in her ear. She'd hoped it would be alright, because it was _him_, but everything had gone wrong. And then he'd just uttered one word, and the memory of it, which kept returning however much she blinked it away, was a little needleprick in her stomach.

It was murky by the time they reached the inn, which looked like a hearth from the distance, glowing with dull embers. It stood alone at a corner of the road, a small stone building with a rudimentary stable and two other carts outside, and the sound of laughter. The turnip cart rolled up to the door.

'Here y'are then.' The driver shifted round to look at her. 'Reckon I'll need to stay here now, too, seeing as how late it is.'

Sansa hopped off the back of the cart, grabbing her bundle and cloak, and looked up at an askew sign of a haybale. She hesitated.

The cart-owner had dismounted and stood behind her. 'Go on, then. It's not a whorehouse.' She swallowed, and went inside, as the driver began to detach his horse from the cart.

There was a large main room, with a hearty, black-smoking fire, and wizened benches and tables scattered around. Three people were in there, sitting at a foam-flecked table with their hands around flagons: two men, who looked hazy-eyed and dirty, and a woman, with a mane of greying hair and innumerable layers of brown woollen cloth over her plump frame. They were all laughing raucously.

The woman looked up at Sansa, who was hovering nervously just inside the door. 'Can I help you, lass?' Sansa nodded, uncertain. The woman heaved herself up, collecting the flagons, and came over to her, rolling slightly on her hips.

'Do you have a room?' said Sansa, trying to sound confident. 'I can pay.'

The woman folded her arms over her bosom and looked her up and down, noticing her wrist bandage and taking in her hair. 'Yes, well, you'd have to pay', she replied, as if Sansa was an idiot.

'I just - need a room for the night.'

The woman narrowed her eyes at her, cool green flints in her puffy face. 'Aren't you a bit young to be out on your own?'

She held her gaze squarely. 'Does it matter?'

The woman sighed slightly. 'Not if you can pay'. Sansa took out her jewels, cupping them: the silver, gossamer-thin chain, the small cinnabar brooch, and her direwolf charm.

The innkeeper eyed her palm, nodding at the dark silver charm. 'That yours, is it?'

Sansa tried to think quickly. 'No. I – stole it.'

There was a pause. 'None of my business where you got it, I suppose,' the woman said. 'I'll have that one.' Sansa opened her mouth to say that she wasn't offering her a choice, but shut it again, and gave the direwolf to her. 'I'll take you up. That all you got?' She jerked her head at Sansa's bundle and cloak.

Sansa nodded, feeling some panic at having given away her charm so easily. 'I'd like a bath, if you have one.'

'That can be done. The innkeeper began to lead her to an inner doorway by the far side of the fire. 'And you'll get a hot meal, and one to break your fast too. And some warm cider, if you're lucky.'

The main door opened again, and Sansa turned to see the cart-owner enter, rubbing his hands in the cold. 'And I need a room for him too.'

The woman turned to look at him, then at Sansa, then back at the driver, who stopped and clasped his hands together as he heard her, an open, pleasantly surprised expression on his face.

Her room was small, dingy, and smelt of damp, but Sansa had never felt so relieved to be indoors. The thought of being alone out in the open countryside at night caused her throat to clog. The mattress was made of straw, with blankets heaped on top. After bolting the door, she folded herself up in the blankets, resting her cheek on the scratchy pillow. She shut her eyes, saw him there, and opened them again. She tried to imagine what had happened after she'd fled from the pool. Had he returned, seen that she'd gone, and been glad? Had he ever returned? Was Stranger still harnessed there, alone? She clamped her hand between her thighs over her dress. She didn't seem to hurt up inside anymore. Her stomach felt awash with guilt, and she drifted into sleep, exhausted.


	30. Chapter 30

She wasn't sure how late it was when she opened her eyes again, but she could still hear voices and laughter from downstairs. Her stomach was making guttural noises. She pushed herself up wearily, wincing at the pain in her wrist. She carefully lifted up some of the binding, and could see pale, blueish flesh. The wound had hardened and had an unnerving glimmer to it. She replaced it quickly, feeling nauseous, and went to the door.

The main room had filled a little more, with men of various ages. She hovered at the bottom stone step, glancing around to see if anyone looked threatening – freeriders or brigands, or anyone of a higher rank who might rout her out – but they all looked like peasants to her, roughly-garbed, and no one seemed to carry a weapon.

The landlady saw her, and gestured for her to come to an empty table in the corner. 'I'll get you some grub.' She swept her unfussily through the room. Most of the men glanced up as she passed, a mixture of looks from curiosity to lewdness.

'Don't mind this lot,' the woman said, 'apart from those two.' She gestured to the friends she had been sitting with earlier, who squinted at her lopsidedly. 'You want to watch him. _And_ him.'

Sansa sat down and looked about carefully, keeping her head bowed. The cart-owner was sitting near the fire at his own table, and caught her eye. He waved. She nodded to him as politely as she could. Her stomach tightened as he came over.

'My thanks for the room for the night.' The lines on his face deepened.

Sansa swallowed, remembering her manners. 'My thanks for the journey.'

He bowed his head in a pretence of solemnity, pursing his lips. 'May I join you for dinner?' I'm Merek,' he continued unaffectedly, seeing her uncertainty. He seemed kind, and humorous, with a glint in his eye and a lightness in his step that cheered her.

'Fira,' she said, nodding her assent shyly. He pulled up a chair.

The landlady plonked down a wooden bowl of stew and a spoon in front of Sansa.

'I'll have one and all, mother,' he said to the woman. She nodded and left them. The steam from the bowl flushed Sansa's cheeks as she leant over it, smelling meat and salt, and began to sip.

Merek put his elbow on the table, clapped a hand on his cheek, and studied her. 'So what's your story then, really?'

'I can't truly say,' she replied, not making eye contact.

He watched her slurping her meal. 'Woman of mystery, eh? Just my type.' He said it lightly, and seemed to be joking.

She felt bold, and decided to play along. 'Have you not got a woman, then?'

He rubbed his face. 'There's a wife. And children, too many.' The landlady returned with his stew. 'Let's have two ciders as well, if you please, mother.'

'I'm not your mother,' she said as she turned. 'Thank the Gods.'

Merek spooned up some stew and eyed the chunk of turnip swimming in the filmy broth. 'Mmm, just what I've always wanted.' Sansa gave the tiniest giggle. He pointed his spoon at her. 'There you go. I knew there was one in there somewhere.'

After they'd finished their meal, Merek regaling her with stories of his brood of children, who seemed to rampage through the countryside terrorising farm animals, Sansa had relaxed enough to smile and talk more freely. The hot cider wound through her and made her head spin slightly. Around them, the atmosphere had become jovial and rowdy, murmurs swelling into shouts, and the landlady's friends had started calling out 'Redhead! Redhead!' and gesturing to the pair of them until Merek had escorted her over to join them.

The landlady's name was Maerwynn, and her friends, who seemed so entrenched in the place that their forms seemed to merge with the furniture, were Fendrel and Brom. They were filthy drunk, the pair of them, but very benign with it. Brom was a vague-eyed old man as big as an ox, with a bulbous nose and raw-looking knuckles. And if Brom was old, then Fendrel seemed as ancient as a First Man, white-haired with dirt in the creases of his face, and an incorrigible, near-toothless smile.

Sansa had never really spoken much to commoners, and found them rough-mannered but curiously gracious, as if they'd once been highborn and were trying to recall it. Their language was foul, but she'd heard the same, if not worse, from Sandor. With Merek at her shoulder, squashed up on a bench, she let them spin her their stories about their lives, and all the fights they'd fought in, and the women they'd fallen in love with. She didn't suppose much of it was true, though by the time Brom was getting misty-eyed about a lady pig-farmer, she was giggling helplessly at both of them. Fendrel started singing a song about bears and fair maidens, holding her good hand and crooning it to her, as if serenading her. She bit her lip and tried to keep a straight face, beginning to feel a little light-headed.

When Fendrel had finished, his voice dwindling wispily away, and peering at her like he couldn't quite see where she'd gone, she removed her hand from his, and went to get up. The men began to lever themselves awkwardly upwards, but she held up her hand, smiling shyly.

'Please don't. Thank you for – the evening.'

They creaked back down onto the benches, groaning. Merek began to shift on the bench to let her pass.

'Goodnight,' she said to him, as the other two began singing to each other, two different songs at the same time.

'You off tomorrow then?'

Sansa nodded, though in reality she felt much less certain.

'You'll be alright, will you?'

She nodded again, a smaller movement.

'How old are you?' he asked.

'Sixteen.' She ran her finger along a groove in the table.

'Bit young to be out here like this.' He gazed at her a little pensively. 'I'm a little worried about you, truth be told.' He wagged a finger at her. 'Though don't tell my wife.'

She smiled. 'Thank you Merek, I'll be alright. I just need to get home.'

'And where's home, then? Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't seem to be accustomed to this sort of establishment.'

She swallowed, trying to look casual. 'North.'

'North?' He blew out his cheeks. 'You don't want be going much further north.'

'Why not?'

He looked at her as if the answer was plain. 'Winter is coming, why else?' Her heart panged at hearing her family's words, and she fought back a tear. Merek eyed her sidelong. 'Didn't mean to upset you.'

She shook her head with a tight little smile, and made to go past him. 'Excuse me.'

He gave her mock-noble bow and then tipped his head up at her. 'Want some company?'. He said it very brightly, as if he knew she'd refuse him, and she couldn't help grinning shyly at his audacity. She shook her head, very definitely, and he sat back with a smile on his face, utterly unoffended, holding his palms out. 'Your loss, my lady.'

Sansa made sure that the door was securely bolted before she used her chamber pot and lay down, the straw rustling and squeaking beneath her. She shouldn't have drunk so much cider. The bed was moving like a rolling rowboat. She lay for a while on her back, waiting for the dark shadows in the room to still. It had got quieter, with men stamping up the stone steps past her door. There was a scratching sound in the ceiling, maybe a rat. A horse neighed softly somewhere.


	31. Chapter 31

She awoke with nastily thin taste in her throat. The day was just dawning, dust specks turning in the light that filtered through the narrow window. The room felt chilled, and had a sour smell of damp. Her skull seemed to have expanded in the night, and ached horribly. She sat up, and promptly threw up onto the floor next the bed, just missing her chamber pot. She lay down again, shuddering, watching some of the vomit trickle slowly down a wide gap between two floorboards.

She lay in her room all morning, sipping water tentatively from her skin, and vomiting again, this time into her chamber pot. She got up to let in Maerwynn, who had banged loudly on the door to rouse her to break her fast; the landlady took one look at the floor, came back with a mop and bucket, and made Sansa clean it up. When the day was brighter, Sansa went downstairs, to an empty dining room, and persuaded Maerwynn to let her have the room for the day and the next night, handing her the brooch as payment. Merek seemed to have gone. She picked at the bread Maerwynn had given her for her midday meal, but couldn't look at the soup. She sat up to her hips in a shallow bathbucket of tepid water.

In the afternoon, Sansa wandered outside, and into the neighbouring fields, high with starched meadowgrasses. She lay down, surrounded by weeds and wildflowers, looking up at the sky, until woolly, dove-grey clouds nosed in and rain began to hit her face.

Sansa had no idea what to do next. She supposed that she needed to find someone else to get her to Winterfell, but who? Anyone could agree, and then take her to Harrenhall, which couldn't be far now, or back south for a ransom. Or do worse to her, rape her or kill her. She needed to find someone that she could trust. She wished Merek hadn't left.

Sansa stood up and went to the window. It had rained all afternoon and was getting dark again. Her stomach was beginning to burn a little less, and her head was clearer. She put her forehad to the near-opaque glass, watching the plump droplets hit, then blew on it and used one finger to draw a flower with perfect, triangular petals.

There was a knock on the door. 'It's Maerwynn.' Sansa unbolted the door. The landlady had her arms folded. 'There's someone here for you.'

Sansa felt a rush of panic, relief, and then anger flood through her. She stood very still. 'I don't want to see him.'

'I don't give an auroch either way,' said Maerwynn ungraciously, turning to go down the steps. 'Just giving you the message.'

Sansa sat down on the bed, her heart suddenly beating very fast, a little trapped bird. He'd come. If he'd found her, it meant he'd been looking. She didn't want to move, knowing he was down there. She chewed her thumbnail down to the skin. She ran her fingers of her good hand through her hair nervously, trying to imagine what they'd say to each other, and how angry he'd be. Having waited as long as she dared, she took a deep breath, and went downstairs.

For a short moment she couldn't see him in the gloom. There were other figures in the room, muttering and clanking down beer goblets. And then there he was, with his back to her, towering over Maerwynn in the corner by the fire. He was leaning towards her, jabbing a finger at her. Sansa took a few steps closer.

'Don't fool with me, woman,' she heard him say, in a threatening low voice.

'Big words from a big man,' she was saying, seeming not in the slightest bit afraid of this man a foot and a half taller than her.

He bent his torso forward, his hand going to the handle of his sword, snarling. 'You'll give them back or I'll gut you like a fish.'

'They're not _yours_, are they?' As she spoke, Maerwynn spotted Sansa. He saw that the landlady was looking past his shoulder, and stiffened, then straightened. And then he turned around.


	32. Chapter 32

He was soaked to the skin, hair plastered to both sides of his face. Steam seemed to be rising off him. His expression was thunderous – truly the Hound again – but his eyes seemed to widen in relief just for a moment as he caught sight of her, before hardening again. Sansa stood two hands away from them, looking at him, half-afraid.

Maerwynn glanced back and forth between them both. 'You do know him then? Have to say I'm surprised.' She pulled her shawl around her shoulders, and pushed past him, giving her the charm and the brooch with a twinge of reluctance. '_You_ can have them. I'm not giving them to _him_.'

The room seemed to have gone very quiet. Sansa took them from her, glanced at him again quickly, and then backed away, turning and dashing up the stairs.

She heard him come after her, two steps at a time, his sword scraping against the stone wall. Reaching her room, fear bubbling up in her throat, she began to shove the door shut, and slammed it on his hand.

'Fuck!' He gave the slightest groan from behind the door. She put her back against it, pushing as hard she could. He pushed it from the other side, then stopped, and spoke quite calmly. 'Fucking hells, Sansa, let me in.' She didn't move. 'Just let the door go and release my damned hand, then.'

She quickly pulled the door back just a fraction, enough for him to pull his arm back, then tried to force it shut again, but he braced his shoulder against it and barged in, almost falling into the room. Sansa stepped back, petrified.

He straightened, clutching his hand. It was the hand that she'd stabbed. She thought he might hit her. And then he threw his arms down, and took a step towards her, and halted, looking like he wanted to envelop her in his arms, but was leashing himself back.

'What are you _doing_ here?' His voice sounded torn.

'I'm not sorry,' she said, vehemently shaking her head. 'I'm not.'

'I didn't ask you to be,' he said, his ribcage still heaving in big breaths.

Sansa looked at him, tears beginning to come. She blinked them back. 'I didn't know what –' her voice was rising. 'I thought I should - go.'

He was shaking his head, small movements, and couldn't seem to speak, just looking at her with a mixture of relief and fury. Suddenly, he sat down on the bed, and put his head in his hands. 'Fuck, Sansa.'

'Don't curse at me.'

He looked up at her, dropping a hand in exasperation. His face was wet from the rain. 'You have no idea how long I've been - ' He swallowed, thickly. 'I thought I was going to find you in a ditch somewhere, with your throat cut.'

Pain flooded her chest. 'You _left _me,' she said, with anguished simplicity. 'You just left me, lying there, in that wood. With no clothes on.' It would have sounded funny if she hadn't been so fuming. He looked crushed. She stared at him, her eyes stinging, daring him to speak, but he didn't. She gave an angry sigh, her shoulders sagging, and spoke, flatly, to the floor. 'I know I wasn't very good.'

'No –' The word emanated from him like a long sigh.

She looked up at him, despondently, and furiously. 'Well I _can't_ have been. Other - otherwise you wouldn't have-'

'Sansa, stop talking.' He gazed up at her, looking tormented, then closed his eyes very slowly as if cursing himself, and opened them again. He seemed to want her to rain blows down on him. The next words emerged slowly, and heavily, as if dredged from deep mud. 'I hurt you. I said I wouldn't hurt you. And I did.'

Sansa looked down at her feet. 'It – doesn't matter.' She shivered, and then looked up, slightly bold and defiant. 'It's supposed to, isn't it? The first time?'

He shook his head just slightly. 'That doesn't – make it any better. It should – I should never have –' he closed his eyes again '- done that to you.'

She gazed at the wall. 'I wanted you to though, didn't I?' she said glumly, biting her lip.

'That doesn't mean I should have.' He took a vast breath in and sighed, and said in a rush, 'What have I done to you, Sansa? I've ruined you. For your family.'

Still looking at the wall, she said, 'I don't care about that.'

'You will care. You _will_.' There was a silence. 'You're just a girl.'

'You know I'm not. You saw.' She waited for him to realise what she meant. 'You told the Queen,' she said, slightly accusingly.

He looked down, ashamed. 'A young woman then. But a very young woman.' She sat down on the floor by the wall, still slightly afraid. 'What were you doing, giving that woman your house sigil jewel?' he asked, a little testily.

She felt wretched. 'I had to pay. I owe her for a night, and tonight.'

He sighed. 'I've paid her.'

They stayed sitting there, hardly looking at each other, but beginning to talk more calmly, long silences in between. He'd searched all over for her, going up several different paths for leagues and leagues, trying three other inns. Stranger was practically broken. Sandor had paid extra for the horse to have a larger stable, and twice as much food and water. She told him about the turnip cart, and Merek, though kept quiet about quite how friendly he'd ended up being, and how ill she'd been. She also didn't tell him that she'd given Merek Joffrey's gold chain. She didn't care. It would pay to feed those children of his for a while.

After a while, Sandor said, 'I've got your – I've got your dress.' Sansa looked straight at him then, remembering the blood on it. 'I'll have it washed.' He looked hugely sad, and then wrinkled his nose, noticing the stale, acrid smell in her room. 'What is that?'

Sansa spoke over-hastily. 'We should go downstairs. We should – eat.'

They sat at a bench at the back of the room, a small space in between them, and Sandor glowering at anyone who glanced at them.

Maerwynn came over to their table, her hands on her hips. 'It's pig tonight.'

Sandor nodded at her curtly. 'I'll take a room.'

'Will you now?' she said. He glared at her stonily. She paused. 'Very well, coin speaks.'

Brom and Fendrel were at a neighbouring table, and swooned over at Sansa from where they sat. 'Will you have us sing you another song, beautiful redhead?'

Sandor gave them a dark look. 'I'll cut your tongues out first.' They looked alarmed, even in the fog of drunkenness.

'Not tonight, thank you,' she smiled at them, hastily.

Brom put his hands together as if in prayer, and Fendrel put his arm around his shoulders. They turned to each other, and started to sing. Sandor eyed them with disgust.

'You don't have to be so horrible,' said Sansa, scoring lines with her fingernail through blob of candlewax on the table. 'They were very kind to me last night.'

He almost spat. 'A pair of fucking cravens like them? They look like they bleed wine'.

She bit her lip, almost grinning, thinking of all the times he'd closed his eyes blissfully as he swigged from his wineskin.

The food came, fried bacon and potatoes and cabbage. Sansa suddenly realised how ravenous she was.

Sandor watched her. 'You're hungry.'

'Didn't eat today,' she replied, with a mouthful of potato and salt-laden gravy. He seemed to find that hard to believe, and raised his eyebrows. 'Sick,' she said, still stuffing her face.

He looked slightly concerned. 'Fever again?'

She shook her head, and picked a bit of bacon gristle out of her teeth. 'Cider.'

He breathed a short, surprised laugh, looking at her with a mixture of alarm and faint pride, and began to eat.

They didn't say much to each other for the rest of the meal. Sandor kept looking at her as if not quite believing that she was real, and gulping from a large mug of ale. He offered it to her, and grinned slowly as she emphatically shook her head. She looked at his hand on the table, slightly swollen from where she'd crunched it in the door, and the small scar from her dagger on the back of it. He smelt of damp leather.

Sandor nodded at her bound wrist. 'How's that?'

Sansa shook her head. 'Not good.' The heat of the room and the food in her belly sent a sudden wave of exhaustion over her. 'I'm – I need to go to sleep'.

He looked down at the table, and gave a small nod, then stood up, the table legs scraping loudly. He eyed the room with distaste. 'I'll see you upstairs.

She walked up the rough stone steps, just lit by a single candle on the wall, with him just behind her. It had gone very quiet. She wondered if he was hoping to come into her room. She didn't know if she wanted him to. They reached her door.

'Sansa.'

She turned round, slowly, her back to the door. She could hardly see his face. 'Can I – Will you let me take you to Winterfell?' His voice was desperately uncertain, as if he was trying to balance on a thin rope. She took a little breath in, and then nodded. He swallowed. She could hear the gurgle wind down his throat. 'Goodnight then.' He turned and quickly went back down the steps.

Sansa lay on her bed. It had finally stopped raining, and a wavering patch of moonlight hovered on the wall. She felt utterly relieved, finally. She knew that he wouldn't hurt her. That he still wanted to see her safe. She supposed he'd gone back down to drink some more beer, and tried to imagine him being serenaded by Fendrel and Brom, if they dared. Unlikely, she smiled to herself, impishly. She thought of him sleeping in another small, damp room somewhere, his big frame cramped in a cot bed. She realised that she'd forgotten to bolt the door, and looked over at it, her mind watery, until her eyes shut.


	33. Chapter 33

She awoke thinking she'd heard a knock. It must have been morning, though a dark-clouded one. The room's scant furniture was foggy and vague-edged. There was another muffled knock on the door. Sansa got up, wearing her smock, and dragging a corner of one blanket from the bed, that brought the other one down with it onto the floorboards. She stood at the door.

'Hello? It's me.' His voice came softly.

Sansa opened the door. He'd had a wash. He looked clean, and dry, and less lined than the night before. He was holding a clay mug and looked down at it sheepishly, then handed it to her. 'Got this from a kitchenmaid.'

She put her nose to it. Hot milk. Sansa looked up at him and smiled just a little, letting the blanket go and putting her fingers round the mug to warm them.

He seemed apprehensive, and was looking very effortfully at just her eyes, and not her smock. 'Do you want me to get you a horse?'

She turned the mug round to him so that her bandaged wrist was nearest to him. 'I don't think I can ride, still'.

'You'll ride with me then?' He was very tentative. She nodded, and quickly bent her head to drink.

Maerwynn was nowhere to be seen as they crossed the room. 'Got her head down, I reckon,' sniffed Sandor. 'She was as gone as the rest of them by the end of the night.'

It was raining, a gentle, muzzy drizzle. They went to the stables, where Stranger was ready for them. He was filthy, mud splattered up to his haunches. Sansa ran a hand along his flank and felt the muscles tremor under her fingers.

'I'm sorry I left you,' she whispered, so that Sandor couldn't hear. Stranger flared his nostrils and showed her the white of his eye. She stroked the bony, smooth hide above his nose.

Sandor brushed Stranger down, saddled him, and packed on their kit. He looked at Sansa hestitantly. 'Alright?' She nodded, pulling her cloak around herself, and then putting her foot out onto his hands to be propelled up and over the saddle. He swung in behind her.

They rode through a dank morning, mist hanging like wraiths above the fields, the paths squelching and slippery beneath Stranger's hooves. Sansa was burrowed into the hood of her cloak, the rain springy on it. However miserable she had been at the inn, she had been at least been dry.

She tilted her head up to him. 'I'm not sleeping in the woods.'

'I know,' he said, near her ear. 'We'll find somewhere.'

As they crossed a mud-churned path, he'd told her that they had skirted Harrenhall now, and had the Bay of Crabs on the east and the Trident at the west. They would have to cross the river somehow in a day. She knew it was a dangerous time. He could take a boat from Saltpans and head to Braavosi or Pentos, but instead he was going within two or three days' ride of Gregor and his men. The Mountain wouldn't give Sandor much brotherly affection after that tourney fight in front of King Robert, and would have heard about him deserting by now. And all this to see her home.

She'd missed that feeling of him, couched between his thighs, his arms against her waist. Picturing them both there together made her stomach contract. She did forgive him. He had run away when he should have been at his most comforting, but she did, somehow, understand. He'd never had a chance to be his own man, always serving others, carrying out their vile demands. He was learning just as much as she was, she thought, learning how to be with her, and with himself.

Sandor pulled up under some tall ash trees to rest Stranger, pushing her forward slightly with his chest as he dismounted. Sansa swung her leg over and faced Sandor, and he reached up and put his hands lightly on her waist. She leant into his palms. He brought her down carefully, and then stood there, his hands still resting gently on her sides. She looked up at him, and then tucked her good hand underneath his arm and around his torso, and put her cheek to his chest.

Sandor made a quiet noise in his throat, as if he'd just been stabbed with a needle. He leant down and put his face in her hair, his arms at her shoulder blades. She could feel his breath on her ear. They didn't move. He squeezed her tighter, until she was so breathless that she had to tap him on the back. He released her sheepishly.

They sat down side by side on a fallen trunk. Sandor had bought bread and cheese from the kitchenmaid, and they ate it, not speaking.

He kept looking at her, softly. 'I'm sorry it's raining.' She screwed her nose up at him and went back to eating. 'I'm sorry, Sansa.' His voice was like gravel.

She glanced at him again. He was crestfallen, his eyes dull, a husk. Sansa stopped chewing. She put her face up to the drizzle for a moment, and then faced him again and took his hand that rested there in his lap. He held it stiffly there for a moment, before his fingers relaxed, loosened, and then clasped her back.

That night they reached another inn on a quiet road near Lord Harroway's Town. Sansa could feel Sandor's body tense behind her as they approached the stables. There were three coursers there, identically dressed, short caparisons with an emblem of a two stone towers and a bridge.

'That's the Freys' sigil. They're sworn to my fa –' She stopped herself. 'To the Starks.'

'Ay, they let your brother over the water as they came south. Wonder why they're here then.'

'If they're sworn to Robb, can't we talk to them? Find out what's happening, and where Robb is. Maybe we can find their camp?'

He paused. 'I don't know. Don't assume anything. I don't like it.' He frowned, and slid off the saddle behind her. 'Stay here.'

Sansa widened her eyes, clutching the reins with her good hand. 'Don't leave me here,' she said, as Stranger stamped a foot.

Sandor looked up at her, calming his destrier with his hand. 'I'm sorry. I won't be long. I think it's best I go in alone. Get the measure of it.' He put the hood of his cloak over his head, and stalked out of the stable.

Sansa waited, her mind beginning to fill with possiblities. Perhaps Robb's troops were heading back this way. Robb could order a party to take her back to Winterfell. What would Sandor do? The thought of him not being with her filled her with a dull dread. She felt a rush of relief when Sandor finally returned.

'I've got us a room.'

'What about the soldiers?'

'Three very merry men-at-arms,' he answered. 'They're gone enough already, I think. They didn't seem to know me.

'Can't we talk to them? Surely – they must know what's going on?'

'I'm not sure, Sansa.' He helped her down from Stranger and looked at her pensively. 'The Freys aren't well known for their fealty. Until we know exactly what's going on, I think it's best we keep our heads down. It would be different if it were your usual Stark bannermen.'

She felt frustrated, but conceded. He tucked her cloak around her shoulders and drew her hood up, then put his hands over her ears and gazed down at her. She could see the dark grey rims of his eyes.

He breathed in, bringing himself back to reality. 'Come on.'


	34. Chapter 34

He led her through the quiet tavern room. Sansa kept her head down, clutching her bundle, and walking on the side of Sandor that was furthest from the corner in which she could see the three soldiers lounging. The landlord, who had tufted white hair and a very red nose, folded his arms and scowled slightly at her. She heard a cheer from the corner, and peeped out from her hood as she walked.

One of the men was holding his beer mug up at Sandor. 'If you get bored, mate'.

Sandor didn't look over or respond, and they quickly took a door to the staircase. He wordlessly led her up the stairs and stopped suddenly outside a door.

'Sansa, do you mind? It's just one room.' She shook her head, smartly, trying not to redden.

He seemed to fill half of the room. There was a bed, big enough for one person, a chair riddled with wormwood and a very small, lopsided table with half a candlestick on it. Sansa looked at the bed.

'I'll sleep on the floor,' said Sandor quietly.

She took off her cloak and placed her bundle on the bed. 'You said I was your – your whore, didn't you?'

He looked down at her, grim but shame-faced. 'I'm sorry. We look suspicious, the pair of us. A great big armoured lug and – ' His face softened, his eyes roaming over her hair. 'You.'

Sansa blushed, then shivered, suddenly and involuntarily. The rain had chilled her from head to toe. She looked at him tentatively. 'Do you think they might have – hot water?'

He flushed slightly, then gave a brisk nod. 'Ay. And I'll get us some food brought up here.'

Sansa waited on the bed, rubbing her wrist gently. Staying in this room together would be much stranger than sleeping side by side in the woods. The spartan domesticity of it, and the presence of the Frey men, seemed to pour the real world back in after their time in the open air. There had been no rules there.

There was a bump at the door, and a girl, probably the same age as Sansa, pushed it with her bottom to come into the room. 'No baths here. You'll have to do with this.' She was struggling with a large pot and a steaming jug, which she plonked down on the table. It wobbled precariously. She turned and eyed Sansa puckishly. 'Is this for before or after?'

Sansa felt her neck go hot. She tightened her jaw and spoke detachedly. 'You're most kind, thank you.'

The girl grinned. 'Oh, one who pretends to be a highborn? He _is_ a lucky sod.'

Sansa looked askance, but tried to remain impassive. 'Those men downstairs. Do you know – which way they're going?'

'Not my business to ask.' The girl sniffed, taking out a washing rag and placing it on the table. 'Unless they want to tell me. Men sometimes like telling me things.' She played with a strand of unruly hair. 'They seem pretty cheerful though.' She paused. 'Anything else?'

Sansa shook her head. She heard Sandor coming back up the stairs. 'Thank you.'

He halted at the doorway, seeing the girl, who caught sight of his face, her eyes widening slightly, before giving him a mischievous look. 'Have a nice night,' she said loudly to Sansa, giving her a wink, and whisked out of the room.

Sandor stood in the doorway, seeing the bowl on the table. 'There's food coming later.' He paused, uncertainly. 'I'll – I'll go and see to Stranger.' He began to back out.

'Sandor.' Sansa stood up and looked at him calmly. 'It's alright. I don't mind.' He looked at her. 'You should stay here. We don't want to be seen, do we? And anyway, your story isn't a very good one if I'm up here and you're down _there_.'

He took a breath in as if to say something, but didn't speak, looking not a little embarrassed. She flashed him a grin, and he smiled sheepishly, and shut the door behind him, bolting it.

Sandor took off his armour and lay down on the bed on his back, stretching his hands behind his head with a groan. 'Maybe I'll just go to sleep.'

It was getting dark. Sansa sat down on the floor and began unlacing her boots. When she looked up, he had closed his eyes. She went to the table in her stockinged feet, pouring the steaming water into the bowl. She was dying for a proper bath with oils, but she supposed that this was better than a muddy stream. She leant over and cupped some of the water in her good hand, and put her face in it, then smoothed it over the back of her neck.

She looked round at Sandor, flung out on the bed. His breathing was slowing. Sansa took a deep breath, and began unlacing the leather binding at the front of her dress, loosening her bodice. She knew that this could lead somewhere, but she felt safe with him again. And it seemed that soon they would be in the presence of other people – her family, or bannermen, people that knew her – and she would be expected to assume the role carved out for her. Highborn girl and not she-wolf. And certainly not a girl who could be with someone like him. Her ribs tightened at the thought of him being sent away. She glanced over at him.

Sandor was looking at her, in the same position with his hands behind his head. His face was mild, and impassive. 'You don't honestly think I can sleep.'

Sansa blushed, and looked at her feet. 'I don't know what to say.'

He spoke very softly. 'Don't say anything then.' He still didn't move his hands. 'Will you let me – ' His mouth sounded dry. 'Sansa, I won't ever hurt you again'.

Her heart plunged into her stomach. 'I know,' she said, her voice slight.


	35. Chapter 35

He unclasped his hands and sat up, pulling off his boots and shrugging off his mailshirt. Sansa felt a bloom of heat on her neck. He stood up and came over to her, and, cupping her jaw in his hands, tilted her face up with his thumbs and kissed her, incredibly gently, his hair falling into her eyes.

He pulled back and hovered just above her, his breath on her mouth, his voice a half-whisper. 'I thought you were dead.'

'I'm not dead,' she said, just as quietly, her eyes closed.

'Ay,' he kissed one corner of her mouth, 'You're the least dead girl I've ever seen', and then kissed the other.

He took the laces of her dress, and continued where she had left off, working them through the eyeholes one by one, the bodice easing away from her ribs a little more. He slowly drew the shoulders of it downwards, Sansa wiggling her good arm out and using that hand to free her other wrist. He moved the waistband further apart around her middle, and then knelt slightly to pull the dress down over her hips. Sansa stepped out of it.

Kneeling properly, Sandor lifted up one of Sansa's feet and tugged at her stocking from the toe. She wobbled and almost fell over, grabbing onto his shoulders with a yelp. He breathed a laugh through his nose and kept hold of it, kissing the top of her foot, the inside of her ankle, and her knee, and then putting it back down carefully. He unfastened her dagger belt from her other calf and placed it on the floor away from them, looking up at her wryly. Sansa gave a little bunched smile, which dissolved as he removed her other stocking and knelt up. Goosepimples had risen all over her skin. He gathered the hem of her smock in his hands and drew it up a little to kiss the front of her thigh.

She could feel his beard, and the rough parts of his burns. Sandor placed a kiss on her hipbone, and at the middle of her stomach, and then got to his feet, bringing the smock up with him, and pulling it over her head and off her arms. He dropped it in a heap on the table and took her injured hand in one of his, straightening her arm and bending down to put his lips on the inside of her elbow, and at the front of her shoulder. Sansa felt like she had suddenly become lined in candlelight, tautened and glowing. She could hardly move.

He stood back for a moment and tugged off his shirt. It was startling to see him, tanned hands and neck and very pale everywhere else, though still dark next to her. Pale shoulders, chest and stomach. And scars. He didn't have the bandage around his shoulder anymore, and the skin had yellowed around a wound as long as her forefinger. He had a long white scar on his side, and another shorter one above one part of his chest. His upper arms – there were old cuts there too - were thick-muscled, and his stomach and chest were dark with hair. She could see now properly where his burns disappeared, at his jawline and some way under his ear.

He looked self-conscious, and she dared herself a little reassuring smile at him. The shadow lifted from Sandor's face, and he pulled her to him by the waist and kissed her again. She felt his tongue on the inside of her upper lip, and on her teeth, and opened her mouth a little more. She felt a sudden melting sensation and her knees slightly buckled. He broke off, and took her by the hand and led her to the bed. Sansa's heart beat a little faster. He got her to lie down on her back, and she knew that he could see her fear.

He shook his head quickly. 'This is just – ' he looked awkward. 'For you.'

Sandor half-lay next to her, his fingers brushing her side very lightly, hipbone to ribs, and then he smoothed his palm flat on her upper belly. He slid his hand slowly down over her stomach and between her thighs, and stroked her, very gently, using his other hand to carefully push down her knees towards the bed. He drew his fingers up and rolled his thumb around her tip, and then down again, and then back up.

Sansa could feel that she was wettening his fingers every time he brought them inside of her. She lay very still, wondering what she was supposed to do. He carried on for a while, and she stared up at the ceiling, feeling horribly nervous. She'd done this to herself before, of a sort, but it felt very different having someone else there. A small sensation flared, making her contract her stomach and gulp. Sandor glanced up at her from underneath his eyebrows.

Pushing himself up by the elbow, he took her nearest thigh, pulling it wider apart. He manoeuvered himself onto the bed, and then suddenly his face was down between her legs, and she felt his tongue there. Shae had told her about this, too. She pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to suppress a grin. It felt slightly ridiculous, and so incredibly uncouth. He was licking her, just a little, moving his tongue up and around her. Sansa felt a tiny warm rush and shuddered slightly, her grin fading, and then re-appearing. Sandor slid a hand under her bottom. It was as if he was gathering all of her up.

He suddenly moved his palm slightly so that his thumb was between her legs, and sliding up into her, beneath his tongue. She gave a yelp that turned into an uncontrolled giggle, and then a broken little sigh. She wondered how she looked like to an outsider, stretched pale and prostrate on the bed with his face there, covered by his tangled hair all over the place. She wondered what her mother would think, then tried to put her face out of her mind, desperately trying to relax, and concentrate.

The bedclothes were chafing her back. As he continued to lick her, little oozing throbs began to pulse gently, like an irregular heartbeat. Sansa's mind was melting, a warm, muddy, mossy puddle. There was a sudden, piercingly tender surge, and a blissful prickle shivered across her thighs and spread to her knees and upwards over her belly.

For a moment she didn't breathe, her chin tipped upwards, before taking in a guttural rush of air. More short, shallow breaths, held, then exhaled loudly. Sandor watched her, then leant up, unshyly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed her. He tasted milky, and sour. Sansa brought her knee up. It began trembling violently.

He put a palm on it, and eyed her, gently amused. 'Are you alright, wolf-girl?' She gulped, and nodded. He scrunched right beside her on the bed, an arm under her neck. She hooked her leg over his and listened to her heart, a horse galloping away from her.

There was a thump. 'Supper!' came the raw, scrubbed voice of the inn girl.

Sandor glanced up at the door, lazily. 'I'd forgotten about that.'

Neither of them moved. Sansa's head was buzzing. She felt completely blank, levelled out. The door was thumped again, and then a silence. They heard her huffily sigh, 'I'll leave it outside, and her footsteps became distant.

Sandor untangled himself, flexing his back, and unbolted the door, bringing in a wooden tray with two bowls and a hunk of bread on it. He put it down near the bed, and dragged the small table over. He was about to move the bowl of water and the jug, when he looked over at Sansa, a quick thought coming. He picked up the rag, soaked it, and began gently pressing it between her legs. Sansa squirmed then, her cheeks reddening, and tried subtly to wriggle up the bed.

He raised his eyebrows at her, wryly amused. 'You're embarrassed _now_?'

'I - ' She stopped moving, and let him continue. He delicately wiped her, and she remembered again being on the bridge being shown her father's head, and him dabbing at her mouth.

They ate on the bed by growingly dim candlelight, Sansa sitting at the foot with a blanket tugged up around her waist. She balanced the bowl of pork and suet broth between her knees and leant over it, attemping to eat delicately, but slightly ruining the effect by dropping breadcrumbs everywhere. She felt completely brazen. Sandor was sitting at the other end of the bed, leaning against the wall, never taking his eyes off her.

She glanced at him with a mouthful of broth, then ducked her eyes down to her bowl. 'It's a bit hard to eat when you're _looking_ at me all the time.'

'You seem to be managing alright,' he said, smiling lazily, and slyly. 'You eat like a wolf.'

'I _am_ a wolf. A hungry one. It's your fault for not feeding me enough.'

He threw a chunk of bread at her. She picked it up from the blanket and dunked it in her broth, then chomped it quickly and triumphantly. He'd never looked so at ease, his legs crossed over at her feet, still sitting there with his shirt off. He looked so – _happy_.

'Before…' She wondered how on earth you talked about what he'd done with her in decorous terms.

'Before what?'

She could see that he knew exactly what she meant. 'Before that – what you were – doing to me. Have you - done that to lots of women?'

'Sansa, don't ask me things like that.'

'Why not?' She knew he hated it, but she couldn't help teasing him, just a little.

'I don't ask you.'

'You know very well I haven't. That's different. I'm just – curious.'

He sighed at her benevolently, and shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and crippling embarrassment. 'Look, you know I've had women. But you wouldn't want to know what - sort of women, not really. Women don't – they take one look at - there aren't many girls like you.' She'd lost her goading look as he'd spoken, and finished eating in humble, thoughtful silence.

After their food, and Sansa making him stand outside the door while she used the chamber pot, they squashed on the bed together. She lay on her stomach right next to him with her face on his arm, the blanket pulled up to her thighs, beginning to feel incredibly tired. Her good arm was tucked underneath her chest, her bound hand sticking out vertically at the elbow in between them.

He watched her as her eyelids started to grow heavy. 'You look like a bloody – I don't know. Not real.'

'I am real,' she said, her eyes closed.

There was a long silence. 'You're the first person to really talk to me. To my face.' He exhaled. 'For a long time, anyway.'

'I like talking to you.' She could feel herself drifting away towards sleep, an untethered boat.

'I won't leave you again. Not until you're home.'

She didn't open her eyes. 'I know.' Her voice sounded distant. She thought she heard him say something else but the words became foggy and indistinct, floating away. Wolves and horses, girls and snow.


	36. Chapter 36

Sansa woke up to hear him using the chamber pot, loudly, and then emptying it out of the window. He eased back into bed behind her, clearly trying not to disturb her, tucking one arm underneath her head and the other inbetween her folded arms at her breasts, gripping her elbow. He sighed drowsily into her shoulder.

He was right. She didn't feel real. They were a story, an illustration in a book. She couldn't ever have imagined that this would feel so warm, and safe. With _him_. She lay still, feeling the prickle of his beard against her back, and then turned her head round to him, her back still couched in his chest.

Sandor looked at her dozily, then cupped her jaw in his palm and slid his thumb a little into her mouth. She bit down on it, first gently, and then a little harder, clinging onto it with her teeth as he tried to pull it out, and turning her body round to face him. She released him.

'_Ow._' He smiled, furrowing his eyebrows. 'You're dangerous.'

'No, I'm not.'

'Ay. You are. You tried to kick me out of bed three times.'

She tipped her chin, gleefully bashful. 'I don't remember.'

He grinned, lazily, and pulled her on top of him, rolling onto his back. Her crotch was on his hipbone, a leg between both of his. She kissed him, then drew back and put her fingers on his burnt eyebrow, where the skin looked molten, as if it was dripping down over his eye. She could feel him against her hip, hard under his breeches. She lightly moved her hand up to his skull, clumps of hair on angrily reddish skin.

'You don't have to touch that, you know,' he said, his voice a little distant.

'I like this side.' She continued to explore it, not looking at him.

His eyes were on hers. 'I don't deserve this, the Gods know it.'

'Don't say that.' There was a sound from her stomach.

He looked at her, mock-frightened. 'What – was _that_?'

She squirmed, and tried to whack him, but he gripped her forearm tightly. He pushed his hips against her, holding her leg down with his calf, and then released her, stretching and rueful.

'You are _always_ hungry,' he said, grinning, and lifted her off him, getting out of bed. He slung on his shirt and pulled on his boots. 'I'll get us some food. Bolt the door'.

Sansa did as she was bid and then crawled back into bed, pulling the blankets over herself, shivering and listening to her stomach growl again. She lay looking at the cracks in the wall next to her head, imagining them as the feathering rivers of Westeros. The Red Fork could be _there_, she thought, running her finger along the tiny fissure as it splintered outwards.

There was a short tap on the door. Sansa grinned and bounded up, naked, unbolting the door. Sandor was standing there, empty-handed.

She folded her arms, enjoying her shamelessness. 'You promised. I want to break my fast. I _demand_ that you go back down and get me something to eat.' Her voice trailed off as he pushed her back into the room, bolted the door and turned back to her.

He was looking down at her with an expression of worry, and something more hard-bitten. 'Get dressed.' She looked up at him, puzzled and suddenly fearful. 'We need to go,' he pressed.

She blushed and silently found her clothes, feeling a fool, and quietly slid herself into her smock as Sandor fixed on his armour. She stepped into her dress and straightened, fumbling at her laces. Sandor took a step up to her and helped her, not looking at her.

'What is it?' she whispered.

'I'll tell you once we're away,' he said, picking up her cloak. His eyes were almost black.


	37. Chapter 37

Sansa had no idea what had happened. He had silently led her down the stairs and whisked her through the near-empty tavern room. The Freys' coursers had still been outside. He'd saddled Stranger and got them mounted and ridden off without a word. The day was still breaking, an unassertive, chilled sun hanging low and a ghost of a moon still in the sky. After a league or two's riding, he slowed Stranger up next to a field of groundsel and long-spiked, purplish flowers, and helped her down.

Sansa stood, looking up at him, and waiting. She didn't understand. He didn't look too dishevelled. There was no blood on him. Sandor seemed to be trying to work out what to say.

'Did you - kill them?' she asked, tentatively.

He put his hands on her cheeks. 'That would have been quick work, even for me.' He didn't say it with his customary slyness. He looked troubled, and couldn't quite make eye contact with her.

'Just tell me.' She steeled herself.

He took a breath in and held it for a moment, letting go of her face and letting his arms hang down, as if defeated. 'Your brothers.'

Sansa's heart pitched. Robb. She tried to picture him lying in a battlefield, an axe in his stomach, but could only see him at home, laughing hysterically as Arya hung onto Bran's back and the two of them fell backwards into the mud. But - he'd said 'brothers'. Jon was so far north, at the Wall. She tried work out what could have happened.

Sandor continued, 'I heard them talking. The Frey men. I don't think they're friends of your family's, Sansa.' He paused, looking at her apprehensively, as if she might hit him. 'Winterfell's been sacked.'

'Winterfell?' she said, not comprehending. 'It can't have been - ' Bran and Rickon. She went cold. 'What's happened to them? Where are they?' She could see from his expression what was coming. She backed away, into Stranger, who crossly harrumphed. 'Are they – are they - '

Sandor swallowed, his eyes falling to the ground, before looking at her again steadfastly. He nodded.

It couldn't be. They were supposed to be safe up there. Bran. Rickon. Sansa pushed past him, stumbling slightly, and threw up. She stood, hunched over, clutching her stomach, looking at her vomit on the ground, hanging on those violet-blue flowers. She could hear him fumbling with something behind her. Her brothers.

His hand was on her back, and a waterskin under her nose. She straightened to drink from it, but could only manage a sip before she retched again. Bran. She began to shiver, violently, her nose running. He was at her feet, rinsing the vomit off her boots, and pouring a little into his hands and smoothing it in the ends of hair. Rickon. She suddenly took in a huge, shuddering breath, the nausea still high in her throat, and sat down, pulling her knees up, and resting her head there. He was there beside her, facing the same way, waiting. Sansa began to cry.

They sat for some time. She suddenly put up her head, and Sandor, who had been staring into the space in front of them, looked at her, patiently.

'Mother?'

'They didn't say. I don't think she's there.'

A crow's laugh rattled in its throat. She tilted her head to look up in the direction of the sound. Her skull felt like it was stretched over a rack. 'I'll kill them.'

'Who?' he asked, quietly.

'The Lannisters.'

He shook his head. 'Not the Lannisters.' She looked at him, red-eyed and weary. 'Theon Greyjoy.'

Theon. Sansa saw him, his sly eyes, often narrowing as they roamed over a serving-girl's chest, or eagerly bright as he tried to impress her father, or, a bit meanly, at her. He was like a brother to Robb and Jon. He would put Rickon on his back and stagger around as if he weighed as much as Hodor. It didn't make sense. Theon couldn't kill them.

'Sansa. We need to decide what to do. There's no point in going – we can't go north. I need to know where to take you.'

She was too tired to even think about it. Her home was gone. She felt like that old yew tree they had slept in, scraped out, soulless. She really wanted her mother.

He could see that she wasn't going to answer him, and continued, softly. 'I – think we should head to Riverrun. Your brother's army is in the Riverlands somewhere, and most likely your mother too.' She nodded mutely. 'Come on then,' he said, rising. He stood over her. She couldn't move. He leant down and gathered her up, and, his arm around her waist, walked her back to Stranger.

Sansa sat side-saddle, clinging onto Sandor with an arm around his back, her head hot and heavy against his chest. She hardly said another word all day, and didn't take notice of their whereabouts. Sandor tried to make her eat, but she just looked at the bread blankly. She couldn't. All she could think of was them. Rickon, always bedraggled no matter how many times his hair was combed, as untamed as Shaggydog, climbing under Sansa's bedcovers and biting her ankles until she kicked him and almost broke his nose. Bran, daydreaming of being a knight and pretending to rescue girls when he thought no one was looking, making heartfelt speeches to silver birch trees. And it made her think of Arya too, her awkward limbs and flyaway hair, the way she folded her arms and screwed her nose up enviously at the boys as they trained with swords under Ser Rodik's beady eye. What had Theon done to them?

She looked up at him then. 'How were they killed?'

'Don't ask me that, Sansa.' He glanced at her, speaking gently, before averting his eyes to the path. Then she knew it was bad, more horrible than she'd dared consider. He would never lie to her. She saw her father's neck split under the axe.

Sandor set up their camp in a copse carpeted with thick, springy moss and lichen. The air was colder than ever. Sandor made her eat a cabbage and apple stew, straight from the pot. Her stomach turned but she did as she was bid, each swallow an effort. She saw Bran spitting out his cabbage back into the soup bowl until Mother clouted him, and gave the pot back to Sandor. He swaddled her up in a blanket, and wrapped himself around her. Sansa nosed into his chest, whimpering. She wanted her mother. She never wanted to face anyone.

She woke up, numb, her nose like ice. They were lying on their sides, facing each other.

'They're dead,' she said. Her voice was small, broken.

He put his fingers in her hair and drew them through it. 'I know.'

She was lying in her own cold grave. 'I want to die.'

'No, you don't.'

He continued stroking her hair. He was so warm. She would huddle there until the next summer, a rabbit in a burrow. Hibernating.

The next day, the paths were more open, and there was a small camp in the distance. A thin plume of smoke merged with the low, slate grey clouds.

They drew a little nearer, and then Sandor slid off Stranger and made her focus on him. 'Wait here.'

Sansa didn't really care if they were friends or enemies, not any more. She watched Sandor walk over to them, almost sauntering, knowing that his fingers were itching to close around the handle of his longsword. Two of the men stood up, their hands moving to their blades. She waited for him to kill them all, but Sandor didn't seem to react. His shoulders were relaxed, and he walked right up to them, the others craning their necks from where they sat. They seemed to be talking. One of the seated men pointed in the direction of the far hills, patterned with scrubby, dark green patches, like rotting brocade. Sandor was strolling back to her, the men all watching him, and looking past him to her.

He swung back on, and pulled her up to his hips, moving Stranger on. She stiffened and tried to look straight ahead as they trotted not a few yards from the camp. They were all watching them pass. One of them suddenly nodded at Sandor, a small, curt movement.

She let herself breathe out slowly after they had passed them. 'Are we still going to Riverrun?'

'We don't need to,' he said at her ear. 'Your brother's camp is a day's ride away.'


	38. Chapter 38

She was almost there. Sansa couldn't quite picture her brother. The Young Wolf. He was now a leader. He'd brought their father's bannermen together, and commanded all those men. She could see them pouring over the countryside, forming and diverging and re-forming like ants. He'd outwitted the Lannisters more than once. She'd been so far from her family for so long, that the idea of being a Stark again was a strange, foreign thing. And she realised what it meant. That he would be leaving her.

They had ridden through patchy fields barbed with thistles and climbed the first hills only to find more, stretching away in front of them. And now the light was leaching from the sky, a gloomy, bruised purple. There was a scattering of buildings in the distance, dim white shapes.

It was a set of three farms, the paths up to them churned with festering mud. The stench made her nose wrinkle and she coughed. As they neared the first, an elderly woman in an apron and bonnet came out, leaning on a stick, and wrapping a shawl around her.

She peered towards them. 'There isn't much to steal here. I'd say you'd best try the next one along.' Her voice was feistily proud for such a frail-looking woman.

'Do you have a room we might use for the night?' Sandor asked. 'We'll pay.'

Sansa had never heard him speak so politely. It almost made her smile.

The woman took a step nearer to them, her eyes cloudy, her neck cricked as if listening very intently. 'How many are you then?' Stranger took a squelching step and she jerked back slightly.

'We're two.'

'Men?'

'Myself and a lady.' She pursed her mouth, as if considering. 'I've a room. It'll not come cheap though. I'm not in the business of taking in travellers.'

After using her fingers to examine the coins that Sandor had placed in her palm, turning them over and running her nail along the raised metal, the woman had shown them to a room. They'd passed an open door and glimpsed an old man, papery skin and very thin arms, lying on his back, unmoving. He had been staring up the ceiling, his toothless mouth agape. Their room was bare but for a small bed against one wall.

'My daughter's room,' the woman had said, fingering the door frame. 'She's dead.'

She had bid them come to the kitchen for some warmth, and served them half-bowls of a watery broth, potatoes and chives. She had softened when she heard Sansa speak, sitting up slightly straighter and becoming garrulous. She had talked and talked, about her children, and their farm. She hadn't seemed to know much, or care about, the changing kings. Her world was the rains that fell for months, and the grandchildren and their fortunes in smithyards or taverns.

Sansa had listened very earnestly, and asked questions. Sandor was sitting on a chair far too small for him, leaning it back against the wall on its back legs, and had watched Sansa the whole time. The woman began to relate all the winters she'd seen, and how she didn't think she and her husband would see the next one through. She said it quite cheerily, and Sansa bit her lip then, trying not to grin, and glanced at Sandor.

He gave her a watchful, slow smile, and held her gaze for some moments, before gradually tilting his head forward and pretending to go to sleep. Sansa glared at him and gave her attention back to the woman, who'd already gone onto the summers, and the crops they'd had in some of those golden seasons, and the names of all the horses who had pulled the plough, before her speech started to slow, and she stopped, mid-sentence, her chin tipping upwards, her mouth ajar. Sandor stood up very quietly, stretching. He took a candlestick from the hearth and lit it, and put his hand out to Sansa. They stole out of the kitchen, the low fire giving a last loud snap.

Sandor put the candle down on the floor near the bed. Their breath came in clouds as they faced each other. Wordlessly, Sansa moved her hands up to his shoulder-armour, and he looked surprised, but showed her, without really talking, how to remove it,and his mailshirt. He helped her out of her dress, and she took off her smock before he could begin help with her it. She didn't care anymore. Not about how she looked, or what her mother would think. She stood there, naked and shivering and looking up at him, expectant. Sandor went to take her to the bed, but she stopped him by tugging the material of his shirt at his stomach until it came free from his waistband. She put her hand underneath it at his back, touching the warm skin, and he flinched.

'Gods!' He tried to stay still as she stroked the base of his back. 'You're as cold as a white walker.' She put both of her hands there then, and slid them up to his shoulder blades. He pulled a face, a mixture of a grimace and a smile. 'And as cruel.'

Sansa smiled faintly and pulled his shirt over his shoulders, and he helped it over his head and stood there, trying to read her face, stroking her upper arm with his middle finger. She put her hands at the band of his breeches, where his waist hollowed into his hip, and began to draw it down, gently.

'Sansa.' He was slightly hesitant. She looked up at him, her fingers still there. She was hollow. She just wanted him.


	39. Chapter 39

Sandor helped her take his breeches off, and then shifted, slightly awkwardly, under her wide eyes. She could do nothing but look at him, _there_, sticking out at an angle, and tried to smother a smile.

He raised his eyebrows at her. 'Are you laughing at me?' She bit her lip, shaking her head. He put his palms up, blameless. 'I can't do anything about it. Not when you're standing there like that.'

He put his hands on her shoulders and walked her to the bed, sliding in after her under blankets so chilled that they made her shudder. He worked an arm underneath her ribcage and pulled her to him, tightly, and she felt him hard against the base of her back. He wasn't making any advances, though - it was as if he was just hanging onto her for dear life. Sansa could feel his apprehension.

Her toes were growing numb. She wriggled round to face Sandor, and stared at him, his face half in shadow. He looked haunted. She put her finger at his collarbone, and down his breastplate through his chest hair, past the scar on his side, and to the hair at his belly. She smoothed the back of her hand over his stomach, and he breathed in sharply and drew it in, leaving a space. She placed her forefinger on a mole on his upper arm muscle, and traced it with her nail to another, and another, as if her finger were a quill. It left pale white lines on his skin, a strange diagram. Sansa suddenly shivered, an uncontrollable tremor quivering through her and down to her feet.

'It's freezing.' She spoke in a whisper.

'Right then,' he said, as if about to undertake a great challenge, and grabbed her around her thigh, pushing her over onto her back.

Sandor straddled one of her legs, and scooped her up towards him to kiss her, deeply. She clung onto his neck and whimpered slightly into his mouth. She felt like she was going to cry. He was balancing the whole of her upper body on one hand, and as he kissed her, he gradually began lowering her back down onto the bed, leaning over her. He began kissing her neck, and then her breasts, kissing their sides, kisses like flakes of snow, putting his mouth over her nipple and gently biting it. As he moved his face down her body, the blankets went with him and she lay, utterly chilled. She was an ice queen, ancient, before the First Men, before the Children of the Forest, some strange northern ghost-maiden with no soul.

His fingers and warm mouth went between her legs, and she put her hand to her face and bit on the side of her forefinger, hard, not being able to stop a smile. He began to explore her with a finger, just a little, and use his tongue. The candle flame was making great shadows on the wall, crones and spirits. Sansa clamped her thighs around Sandor's ears, then quickly released them, embarrassed, thinking she'd be squashing him. How could he _breathe_ down there anyway? He looked up, kissed her on the inside of her thigh, and continued, gently pressing her leg up to his ear again. She listened to her halting exhalations, as if something was tumbling down a staircase. He slid a finger, or maybe more than one, deeper into her, and she heard herself make a strange, little animal noise. She felt a rush of warmth, and tilted her hips downwards.

There were little distant bursts of sweetness, and she arched her neck and opened her mouth to gasp, then thought of the old man next door and promptly shut it again. She wanted that feeling she'd had before to come again, and soon. It seemed far-off still, but then he moved his tongue slightly higher and she had a sensation almost like a pain, and put her palm out on the mattress. She was still freezing, goosebumped, everywhere but there. Sansa wondered how long he could keep doing that for, and whether he minded too much. He was making a guttural sound like he was drowning. She could smell that putrid farm-stench.

She felt another small surge, and widened her leg, and then suddenly all she could think about was that feeling, which was getting closer, she thought, and then not, and then closer, and definitely closer, and _there_. It was more sudden than last time, and she gave a sort of shout and grabbed Sandor's head to quickly move his mouth away afterwards. She held him there, her hands at his cheeks, hovering just above her. She felt like she was molten wax, all over.

Sansa let him go and flung herself back on the bed. Sandor kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, and then brought himself up towards her, kissing her stomach, and between her breasts. She could feel him hanging there, against the top of her hip, and shifted herself up on her good elbow to touch him. Sandor gave a strange sort of shudder, and made a rough sound in his throat. She reached down put her fingers around him very gently, not really sure what she should be doing, and tried to look down.

'Look at me.' He tipped her chin up, and looked at her earnestly, and as though he was trying to make her really listen, and really believe him. 'It hurts, you tell me.'

Sansa thought of that last night at King's Landing, and how close his face had been to her then, and how afraid she'd been. She nodded.

He drew back, his knees pressing into her thighs, and used his hand to guide himself into her. Sansa tried desperately to relax, and be calm. Sandor pushed himself into her, just a little, and then withdrew, not quite all the way. He stroked her stomach, looking carefully at her, as if bracing himself to leap away at any moment. He moved in again, a little more, and she could feel him against her, like cave walls expanding, and then she couldn't tell what it felt like. Liquidy, and dangerous, and so intimate that she couldn't quite believe that he was doing this to her and that they were so close. She lifted her hips up to him slightly, and she saw a tremor pass through him, though he tried to quell it. He was being desperately cautious, she could see. She didn't have that flash of pain this time. It felt strange, and it still hurt, but nothing like before.

Sandor had a hand at her hipbone and the other under her buttock, and she moved into his palm. He gave a big sigh then, and lowered his torso towards her, an elbow by her side, and slid in deeper. Sansa had a different, hazier sensation of pleasure as he did so, and exhaled sharply. He glanced at her, almost surprised, and put a hand under her hair. She felt his hips move against hers, more constantly.

There was a slick sound that seemed very loud in the quiet house, and the legs of the bed were shifting against the stone. Then Sandor was kissing her, and making a noise that was a breath and a sigh and a grunt every time he breathed out, and she could feel a vague, kneading feeling low in her belly that was like ink being blotted. His shoulder wound was at her cheek. He moved faster, and tightened his fingers around the back of her neck, and seemed to freeze, his body crushed tight against her, gripping her all over.

Sandor lay still, and still inside her, for some moments, as if lost in thought.

She touched his face, and he looked up at her. 'You're – I'm a bit squashed.'

He gave a sort of muffled, apologetic response and slid out of her and onto his side, his hand slung across her ribs, his leg over hers. She could feel the prickle of sweat from him. She looked down at him, feeling tall. Older.

His head was resting on her shoulder, and he raised his eyes, deep lines forming on his forehead.

'You are – ' Sandor didn't finish. He just stared up at her, and then spread some of her hair out on the pillow.

Sansa watched the shadows, now dark grey on black. Sandor began to make almost imperceptible, jerking movements. There was a little spasm in his thigh, and one in his upper arm. A sudden puff of breath burned her shoulder. Maybe he was part-dragon, she thought, grinning a little. It was better than being a dog. It seemed ridiculous to her that he had called himself the Hound. He was the bravest man she'd ever met. One who never lied and who understood her. She wanted so much to be with her family, but the thought of what lay ahead the next day filled her with something nearing dread.


	40. Chapter 40

It couldn't have been much later when Sansa woke. The candle must have been nothing more than a stub, emitting the merest glimmer of light, a dull, low glow. She had turned to face him a little more, her head at his chest. She listened to their inbreaths and outbreaths crossing, as if trying to reach for each other's hands, and just missing. She put her hand on his chest and he shifted, swallowing dryly, and looked down at her.

'I don't want you to leave.' He didn't say anything. 'You promised you wouldn't.' She knew how he'd answer.

'Until I got you home.' She could feel the words resonating in his chest. 'To your family.'

Sansa took a big, cheerless breath in. 'Can't you stay?'

He touched her ear. 'And do what? Be your manservant?'

She took his hand off and held it. 'Can't you – serve Robb?'

He gently rubbed her middle knuckle with his thumb, the tiniest movement. 'I'm done serving, Sansa.'

'Don't you care about me?' It came out in a tightly forlorn whisper. She sounded like a child. He stopped moving his thumb. She wanted him to curse, shout, drag her outside and wheel her around in the mud. 'Not talking is not the same as telling the truth,' she said in sudden frustration.

'Don't,' he said, very quietly.

Sansa understood exactly what he was doing, and what he meant. She couldn't bear it. She had to tell him. 'Sandor, I – ' She hesitated, tears coming

'Don't,' he said again under his breath, almost dangerously. She squeezed her eyes shut, furious at the tears, trying to banish them. He spoke more gently then. 'You'll have some flaxen-haired prince from the Summer Isles soon enough who's noble and honest and brave and all the things in those old songs of yours.'

'I hate those songs.' She turned her back to him.

Sandor was wearing thick furs, looking as fierce as a black bear, and stood up to his calves in snow. His lips were almost blue, his hair whipping in front of his face. The wind became a black shadow, and the shadow became Joffrey, as tall as him, taller even. And then his fist was in Sandor's stomach, and he brought it back, pulling out his sword, which dripped, green and glowing.

She woke up with a stiff, aching neck. Sandor wasn't there. Sansa could feel the heat still pressed into the bedclothes where he'd been lying, and huddled into it. It was light, and she heard Stranger harrumph. The old woman shouted something, and she heard him indistinctly reply, an assured mumble. She put the covers over her head, an airless cave, smelling the warmth and sweat of him. She wondered how long she could stay there before coming up for breath.

After a while, he came into the room, and knelt beside the bed, his hand on the covers near her.

'Sansa.' She wasn't fooling him. He knew she was awake. 'She's made you oatmeal.' Sansa didn't move. 'You have to get up.' She tried not to breathe, though her throat was beginning to grow tight. 'Sansa.'

'I don't want to,' she said in a tiny voice from under the bedclothes.

He put his hand on her head. 'You don't want to stay here. She's started on her brothers and sisters now. Your ears will fall off.' She nosed herself up through the covers, enough to blink, mole-like, out at him, and clutched the edge of a blanket. He was right there, dark beard and the corners of his mouth twitching. He looked at her so gently that she wanted to cry. He touched her nose. 'You don't want me around.'

'I do.'

He snatched up her hand and made her look at him. 'I've done horrible things, Sansa. I'm going to go on doing horrible things.'

'Why? Why do you have to?'

He shrugged, looking at her thoughtfully. 'It's what I've always done.'

'Just – kill people who deserve it,' she flung at him in a small, hopeless, impatient voice. 'Not winesellers and paupers and old drunks. Kill the things in the North. And Lannisters. And Theon.' He kissed her fingers.

They had left more coin than they'd pledged with the old woman, who stood at her gate as they rolled heavily away through the mud. She looked as slight as a reed, swaying in the wind, her ear cocked to Stranger's hooves as they squelched further away from her. Sansa pulled her cloak over her head. There was a rawness in the air.

Sandor had reckoned that they would just have to reach the brow of the long, shallow-sloping hill up ahead before setting eyes on the army's camp. They entered a wood, the papery leaves on the hazels beginning to lose their brightness. They were both quiet. There seemed to be nothing to say. Sansa was trying to imagine scenarios in which he'd _have_ to stay, ridiculous things where she had lost the ability to speak, or forced him to become her sworn sword, or made Robb take him hostage. Maybe he would consider staying when he saw how kind Robb was. He could become his bannerman, swear allegiance, fight for him. Or maybe he would stay if she told him, _really_ told him, how she felt. She only just knew, herself. She'd tried, but she'd never said, not properly. Maybe he just needed to hear it. He was terrified of being cared for. But if she could tell him -

A fox loped nonchalantly across their path, a scraggy, brown thing. 'I know a song about a fox.' Sandor squeezed her shoulders with his arms as he held the reins.

She didn't much feel like talking. 'You said you didn't know any songs.'

'I know songs.' He sniffed dryly and put his cheek to the side of her head, his voice low and teasing. 'I just said I wouldn't sing them.'

Sansa felt her ear burn. 'What if I make you?'

He put an arm at the front of her waist to pull her in towards him. 'And how are you going to do that?'

Sansa went to reply when a man stepped out onto the path and pointed a bow and arrow at them. Sandor reined in Stranger, sharply.

'Name your allegiance', called the man.

'What, or you'll shoot us both?' snapped Sandor. 'You should have more care than to point that at a woman.'

There were crackling and rustling sounds on the low ridges all around them, and suddenly they were surrounded by five more men, all holding bows up.

A seventh man appeared from the undergrowth just behind them, and put a longsword up to Sansa's chest, a sardonic look on his face. 'How about this?'


	41. Chapter 41

Sansa stayed very still, her eyes on the tip of the blade, which was placed, with precision, an inch from her breastplate. She prayed that Stranger wouldn't panic.

'Put that fucking thing down,' said Sandor, his voice even.

She wondered how he would protect her from all of these men, and imagined riding through them, arrows thudding into her legs.

'I know him.' One of the arrowman to their left gestured with his bow. The man with the sword narrowed his eyes up at Sandor. 'Half-face,' said the arrowman. 'That's the Hound. Clegane.'

'_Clegane_?' called the first man from the path.

'The younger one,' the arrowman threw back. 'Not as tall.'

'Fuck, I hope I never meet his brother then,' called another from behind them. They laughed.

Sansa looked as calmly as she could down at the man with the sword. He was just a few years older than her, with a thick scar running down his neck from behind his ear. He looked tired, and very young. 'He is a Clegane. But you must heed me, he's seen me here from King's Landing. You won't touch him.'

The man grinned. 'Gods, listen to her.' He'd lost his nerve, though, and looked at her more uncertainly. 'Who does that make you then?'

The watchers were Karstark men. They walked, bows slung over their shoulders, either side of Stranger, who was led by the sword-bearer. He had looked embarrassed when she'd told him that she was a Stark, and sent one man ahead. Sansa sat slightly taller in the saddle. It felt strange. The balance had suddenly, subtly shifted. She was part of a powerful family - a conquering army - and returning to them. Sandor, who had got her this far, and helped her survive, and wrapped his arms round her in the woods, was incidental. He was silent behind her, and she knew that he hated it.

Muffled sounds had begun to filter in as they ascended the sloped path. Dull, thin thuds. A shout. They emerged from the wood at the brow of the hill and into a wide sky. Below, stretching a league into the distance, was a terrain of tents, and carts, and horses, and men. Men in clumps around fires, men with horses, men training with swords, men being shouted at, and shouting back. A sea of mud and men, and wisps of rising smoke. There was powdery rain in the distance, like a lace drape being pulled over the sky. A narrow band of pale golden light hung on the horizon. They headed towards them.

The swordbearer took them to a large, square tent, walled with heavy purple fabric that was wet with mud. Sandor dismounted and helped Sansa off. She looked at him reassuringly, and went to touch his hand, but he had a distant, anonymous look.

'I'll wait here,' he said, unsmiling. She took a deep breath and entered the tent.

Her mother was sitting with her back to her, at a great table scattered with curling maps and goblets. Sansa stood hesitantly for a second, a pain in her throat, and Catelyn turned around. For a sliver of a moment, she didn't move, and Sansa could see that she was taking her in, startled at how much she'd grown. Then she inhaled sharply and rose up and had her arms around her. Tears coming, Sansa sank into her mother, her wounded hand at her chest, her cheek on her shoulder. She saw her father again, and her brothers, and Arya, all together at Winterfell, and then their bodies scattered over the Seven Kingdoms.

'My girl, my dear, darling girl.' She smelt like she always had, faint lavender and musty wool. It was as if she had never been apart from her, that King's Landing had lasted mere days.

Catelyn drew back, her arms clutching Sansa's elbows. 'And,' her eyes were apprehensive, daring to hope. 'Arya?'

Sansa shook her head, and her mother's face fell. Sansa couldn't help feeling disappointed that her reappearance wasn't enough.

Catelyn put a warm, soft hand on her cheek. 'How are you here, Sansa?'

'I was – rescued, from the siege.' She wondered when she should bring Sandor in. 'Mother, what happened? With Stannis?'

Her mother's jaw tightened. 'The Lannisters prevailed, with the Tyrells' help.' Sansa's heart sank. Joffrey was still alive, then. All of them were. Her mother was carefully holding her bandaged wrist up with concern. 'Who rescued you?'

Sansa swallowed, and drew herself up. 'Sandor Clegane.'

Catelyn's eyes widened. '_Clegane_?' She drew out the name incredulously. 'How can that be?'

Sansa saw the doubt in her face, her mind working. 'He's outside. Can I – can I bring him in?' Her mother seemed to be struggling to comprehend, and she nodded, mutely.

Sandor was standing a little way off from the tent, haggling over a wineskin with a young squire. She stood at his arm, and he looked down at her. She could see how apprehensive he was. 'Will you – see my mother?' she asked him gently.

He took a great swig of wine, wiped his mouth and exhaled heavily. 'Ay.'

Her mother was standing ready for them, her hands folded. She tilted her chin up at Sandor as he entered, looking more highborn than she had a moment ago. He stood, awkwardly, and nodded curtly at her. This was going to be more difficult than Sansa had hoped. 'Mother, this is Sandor Clegane.'

'I remember you well', she said, looking at him unflinchingly. Her hostility was as plain as day. 'You'll be expecting payment, then.'

Sandor was impassive. 'I'll not be.'

'Then what it is you want?' Catelyn asked.

He shook his head. 'Nothing you'll understand.'

Catelyn took in a breath then, her eyes darting from him to Sansa and back again.

'_Sansa_!' And then Robb was there, sweeping in and grabbing Sansa around her middle.

For an instant, she was eight again, and he was chucking her off the haybales. 'Robb, you're crushing me.'

He put her down, carefully, and his boyish, open face changed, as if he'd suddenly remembered who he was now. Roose Bolton, flint-eyed, had entered behind him and stood respectfully by the door, frowning icily at Sandor, who steadfastly ignored him.

Robb picked up her bandaged wrist. 'Your hand.' He seemed so much older. 'I'll have Tulisa look at it.' His beard was thicker and his long dark red cloak gave him a gravitas she couldn't have imagined he could carry. He was a leader.

Sansa introduced Sandor to him and watched Robb's face harden. 'You're Joffrey's man.'

Sandor looked indifferent. 'I was.'

She wished he could answer a little more respectfully, but knew how hard it was for him. She looked earnestly at her brother. 'He left the battle, and he's seen me safe. All the way here.'

Robb hadn't taken his eyes off Sandor's face. 'I thank you then,' he said to him, guardedly, but not without kindness. He looked at their mother.

Catelyn suddenly said, 'We'd like to talk to Sansa alone.' Her heart sank. Sandor jerked his head slightly, tight-lipped, and strode out again. Robb nodded at Roose Bolton, who followed him outside.

Her mother sat her down and looked at her searchingly. 'Sansa, what did he do to you?'

'Nothing!' She didn't look up.

'Sansa. I know you're not telling me the truth.' Catelyn put a hand over hers. 'You're safe now.' She pressed, more gently. 'You must tell me. If he hurt you – '

'No, mother. He didn't hurt me.' Sansa's voice was tight.

There was a pause, whilst her mother considered her. 'Have you lain with him?' Sansa didn't answer, glaring at the wall of the tent. She heard Catelyn exhale, tightly. 'Sansa, if you've lain with – that man, you know what means for you. For _us_ – '

Sansa turned to her, furious. 'You have _no_ idea. You have no idea what it was like for me there. Do you think they treated me like a princess? They imprisoned me. They hit me. Joffrey made them strip me. In court. In front of people. And then - there were riots, and men attacked me - ' Catelyn was beginning to look horrified. Sansa was about to tell her how Sandor had protected her there, but she could see what her mother was starting to think. And she let her. 'I was attacked,' she said again, more finally. Robb, a few paces away, seemed shocked, and bowed his head. Catelyn tried to read her face, looking for a sign that Sansa wasn't telling the truth. She looked back at her mother utterly impassively. She wasn't lying.

Catelyn took her hand and put it between hers on her lap. 'My girl,' she said, and couldn't seem to say anymore.

Sansa was beginning to feel enraged. Sandor had been right. They were happy that she was back, that was plain enough. But they only wanted her for their own alliances. Her mother would never care what _she _wanted. And it was her who had let them all down. 'Where _were _you?' Catelyn looked puzzled and Sansa glared at her, her eyes stinging. 'Bran. Rickon.'

On hearing the names, her mother looked ashamed, and then gravely sad. She had more lines on her face than Sansa remembered, thinking of the riverine cracks in the inn wall. 'I felt it my duty to be he- '

'Your duty was to look after your children.' Sansa felt something inside her snap. 'How could you leave them up there? To fend for themselves? To _guard _Winterfell?'

Catelyn put her hand up to Sansa's cheek, and she felt a tear spill onto it. 'I will never forgive myself, Sansa.'

She bade Sansa to go and sit in another tent whilst she talked it over with Robb. Sansa flung herself down on a bench. The thought of not seeing him again made her want to shout and scream, tear down the walls. She would run away with him if they didn't let him stay. They would go back to the woods, hide there, go further, get a boat, run as far as they could away from everyone.

Roose Bolton came to take her back to Robb's tent, and walked behind her, silent and watchful. Sandor was already inside, his arms stiff at his sides. He looked so stoical, as if he didn't care about anything. As if the last few days had never happened. Her brother and mother were seated, but rose when Sansa entered.

There was a silence, and then Robb spoke, facing Sandor, his voice grave. The Young Wolf. 'I thank you, ser, for returning my sister to us. It means more than you know. But I cannot forget whom you have served. My father was executed by your king. That is unforgiveable.'

Sandor's eyes flickered over to Sansa, and then back to Robb, taciturn. 'I'll be going then.'

'No!' blurted Sansa, taking a step forward, and looking between them frantically. 'Please –' she pleaded first to Robb, and then to Sandor. 'Please don't.'

'We shall not forget our courtesies,' said Catelyn. 'You will stay tonight, and eat supper, and have your horse rested.'

Sandor looked sourly proud. 'I'll not get in your way.'

'Very well,' Catelyn said. 'There's an inn not two leagues further north, at the crossroads with Barrowburn.'

Sansa couldn't bear them talking as if she wasn't there. Panic was rising in her throat. 'Stop it.' They all looked at her. She spoke more quietly, anguished. '_Please_. I – I love him.' Her mother's lips parted with disappointment. Robb stared at her, slightly embarrassed. Roose Bolton had a faint smirk on his face. Sansa didn't care. She turned to Sandor, desperately. '_Please_ don't go.'

He looked at her, and for a small moment she saw him as he had been last night, his head on her shoulder. Then his face hardened, and he gave a crooked, darkly arrogant smile to them all. And then he turned, and he was gone.


	42. Chapter 42

**Coda 1**

She sat at the edge of a small, still pool, wrapped in thick wool and fur, the leaves under her feet dusted with frost. She came here often. It reminded her of the godswood, though there were no weirwoods here, of course. She wasn't supposed to be on her own – too risky, her great-uncle had said – but she'd slipped out when her maid was too busy talking to the stable boy.

Winter had come in slowly. She'd known a winter once before, and could remember being wrapped so thickly in furs that she could only waddle. This seemed harder, and more cruel, and it was still only just beginning. It was a quiet world of great fires and thin, drawn faces, where people talked in whispers, as if over the dead.

The dead. She always hoped to see them here, in the blank pool. Her mother, and brother, and father's faces, but she only ever saw herself, paler than ever, her hair dull through lack of sun. She found the dull throb of grief a comfort now, a thing she wore. If she woke up and didn't remember straightaway, she felt a terrible guilt.

A twig cracked behind her. She sighed at the pool. 'I'm coming back.' Her maid didn't respond, and the footsteps neared her. She began to turn, and then he was there, and sitting beside her.

He was wrapped in furs, bearlike, just as in her dream. He looked bigger than ever. She sat, her head turned towards him, utterly frozen in astonishment, and hurt. Her breath came out in slow, irregular swirls. He didn't say anything, simply looking, as she'd been, deep into the water.

'Everyone's gone.' She felt like she was standing in the middle of an ice-lake.

'I know. I'm sorry, Sansa.' His voice was warm, and low, and just as she'd remembered it. He had a thin scar across his fingers, just below the knuckles, that hadn't been there before.

Everything felt slow, and still, and rarefied. 'What are you doing here?'

'I was passing.' There was a trace of that wryness in his voice, before he spoke more sincerely. 'I saw your brother.'

She took in a breath. 'Bran?' He looked at her for the first time then, puzzled, as if worried that she'd become madspun in her grief. He seemed lighter. Energised. Those brown-grey eyes, locking into hers so startlingly she felt like she'd been stabbed. 'It's thought they're not dead,' she said, staring at him. 'But we don't where they are.'

'No,' he said. 'Jon.'

Jon. There'd been no word from Jon, no ravens, nothing to suggest he was even alive up there.

'I've word for you from him,' he told her. 'He said not - to worry. That he would avenge them. All of them. He said to tell you that - he loves you.'

Sansa felt a tear emerge from the corner of her eye nearest him. 'Is that why you're here, to give me his message?' She knew she sounded bitter. She couldn't forgive him yet, not so easily.

'I'm going south. Further than south. I'm going to take a boat and go as far as I can. Somewhere safe. Sansa, there are terrible things coming. More terrible than you've seen.' She looked up at him, stung, hearing him belittle her losses so flippantly, but he didn't flinch or apologise. He leant his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and eyed her earnestly, as if to make her see, make her understand.

Then the line of his jaw relaxed just a little, and he looked at her longer, and more deeply. 'I'm here to take you with me.' Sansa couldn't speak. 'He's not the only one.'

She didn't understand, and gave the slightest shake of her head, breaking out of her reverie. 'What?'

'Jon. He's not the only one. Who loves you.'

Sandor took her little finger in his hand, and brought it very gently over to him, holding it in the air in front of him, and then interlocking his fingers over hers. She felt the tear roll suddenly down her cheek and land on the fur on her arm. It balanced, suspended, there, a tiny pool with all the world in it, and then broke and disappeared.


	43. Chapter 43

**Coda 2**

A bird that could be cupped comfortably in a hand perches on a sun-baked windowsill. It has a plump, rose-coloured breast, slanting black and white stripes on the tail, a yellow beak. It cocks its head into the cool, dark room. On the bed there are two figures curled naked, pale and dark, around each other into one shape like a cerith shell. They are still, their breaths passing, and sometimes falling together. Sea-breezes send the scents of salt, cinammon and turmeric folding in. The bird pecks at the windowsill, and, finding nothing, lifts its wings and bobs out onto little ridges of air. It rises, and below it the red roof becomes many red roofs, and turrets, and as it tilts, there are long perfect rows of vines, and hills, and the sea.

**Thanks everyone for reading! I do hope you enjoyed it - let me know what you thought. My other story, 'The Colour of Fire', is this story from Sandor's POV. It's much shorter, punchier, rather more rude (OBVIOUSLY) and fills in some gaps. **

**Here's my tune to go out on: watch?v=zdlIONCJOPA (if you can't use the link, look for The Kossoy Sisters' 'Little Birdie' on YouTube'. It's a heartbreaker.)**

**SF x**


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